If I Could Fly
by jlgrant
Summary: Time heals, but it does not forget. A bond forged in shadow strives for life in the light. Work in progress.
1. To Banish the Ghosts of Yesterday

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the poems/quotations that appear at the begginning of each chapter.

AN: This story is set two years after Christine left Erik. I'm using the Kay timeline, but this is mostly based on the ALW musical (or movie) But there will also be some references to Leroux and Kay.

Summary: Time heals, but it does not forget. A bond forged in shadow strives for life in the light.

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**If I Could Fly**

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_Don't try to fly before you have wings _

- French Proverb

oOo

_**To Banish the Ghosts of Yesterday**_

oOo

_**India,**__** 1883. **_

A young girl made her way down the darkened corridor, her feet light and hurried, whispering softly against the cold marble. Hazy lanterns lined the wall, making her shadow shake against soft textures of white and blue. Her skirts slithered across the shiny surface, as she tiptoed to the door. The door many girls had been sent to in these recent dark, relenting days. None could ever speak of what had awaited them on the other side, or what ordeals they had been reduced to. Some did not return at all. The ones that did were never the same again. All confined to a dreamless state, screaming out in the dark, terror sheathed into their minds. She was the last resort, the most beautiful woman in the harem. If she couldn't break him, nobody could.

She lifted her small fist and banged against the large door. Three even thuds.

There was no answer; just as she had been told there would not be. The door creaked and cried as she opened it slowly.

The room was shrouded in a musky glow of candlelight. The air was almost suffocating; it veiled her senses in a layer of intoxication. Her eyelids wanted to close, but also to drink in the sensuality around her. Unconsciousness tugged at her soul, and held out a tempting hand, daring her to give in and succumb to slumber. It was never daylight in this room; nor was it night. It was in an eternal conflict, stuck between the realms of light and dark; passion and despair…

She saw him then. Sat at a piano with his back turned to her; his build was slim and his hair dark. He wore a black Persian robe. He did not look like the barbaric warrior other people had rumoured him to be. In fact, he looked like the most normal thing in this dark hallucination, a normal man, enjoying his music. He had yet to acknowledge her presence. And she continued to stare, striving to remain conscious…

"What do you want?" he asked suddenly. She was completely awestruck by the sensuality in his voice.

"M-my name is Miraza, my lord…I am a gift from the master, a gift of pleasure …" she said with a shake to her pretty voice.

There was a grim silence.

He turned his head slightly, and she was afforded the first glimpse of his white mask.

"I do not require your service; as I told the others. So, you may take your _gift _elsewhere." He turned back to his piano.

"But sir, the master insists…he was most adamant that I reward you for your loyalty."

"You may remind _your master, _that I have no loyalties. I'm sure you have a lover somewhere who would appreciate your services; I have no need for you. Now leave me." She had never heard such commanded rage in her life. His voice was abusive, and she felt fear and enthrallment in one sensuous harmony. Part of her wanted to run from this awful room, and this mysterious man. But the other half of her was becoming addicted to the unearthly magnetism of his voice.

"Please - sir…"

"Do not test my patience child…" he snapped "leave now_._ That is not a request."

When she still did not leave, he stood. His chair fell to the floor. Miraza felt her breath catch deeply within her lungs. To see him at his full height was something else. He was taller than most of the men she knew, and most of the men she had seen. He must have been at the peak of manhood. She felt as though her heart would shoot from her chest. He turned around, slowly, glaring at her with eyes that looked amber, or were they golden? She could not tell, in this light everything seemed from another world. She could not pull her eyes away. She was sucked into the glowing orbs, alight with hot warning.

Then she remembered the rules given to her before she came here this evening.

_Always knock, even though you will never get a response. Be confident, and do not show any fear. He wi__ll try to turn you away, stand your ground. But the one to remember above all else: do not stare at his mask. _

"…it is very rude to stare, mademoiselle." He hissed. His eyes had narrowed dangerously. Aside from his mouth, they were all she could see. The rest of his face was covered by the haunting mask.

"F-forgive me…please, my lord, do not deny me – nor yourself…let me stay with you tonight, and you shall receive the sweetest pleasure known to a man!"

He began to laugh. It was a shrill and menacing sound that echoed around the room; making her shudder, she wanted to move her hands over her ears. It made her forget that laughter was usually a pleasurable sound, associated with merriment and happiness. This was a cruel and callous noise, like some form of bizarre torture.

"Do not speak to me of denial, nor of pleasure…" he growled as he took a few measured steps towards her, "…and do not assume that _you_ would be enough for _me,_ mademoiselle, you know nothing of the desire I crave – nor of the pleasure I have felt. There are NONE who can live up to it…" she could feel a scolding lump tingle in her throat. His eyes looked like fire; the laughter was gone.

"NOW…LEAVE ME!" He roared. Miraza found her legs at last and sprinted from the room. The door slammed behind her.

Erik sank to the floor; he ran his long fingers through his hair. This was becoming a limbo of torture. Almost nightly these deluded girls would be sent to him. But he would _always_ turn them away. For they reminded him of the one thing he wanted, the one thing he craved.

Two years had done nothing to quench that thirst.

There was only one person able to fill this consuming void, the one heart and soul he still yearned to be with…

…the one name he had banished from his tongue.

oOo


	2. Setting Sail

_Yet, though I had safely pass'd,  
That weary, vexed main,  
One loved voice, through surge and blast,  
Could call me back again._

- Charlotte Bronte – Regret.

oOo

_**Setting Sail.**_

oOo

Raoul watched as the shores of his homeland became a mere spec on the horizon. The subtle sea air danced through his hair, and the gulls sang an inharmonious chorus. Their incessant squawking reminded him of Carlotta, he smiled at the thought. It seemed the memories of years gone by could still make him smile … sometimes.

He could feel his emotions conflicting with one another. He felt excitement, a new, positive chapter in his life was about to begin. He could, at last, throw the ashes of his old life into the sea, and watch them drown. But there was also a distant, soft sadness. Everything that had meant something to him in Paris would now be a memory. An ache burned subtly in his chest, and he doubted if it would ever completely fade.

Some scars never truly heal.

America. The sound of it made his insides buzz. It was the land of opportunity, the new world. His father had acquired a business in the state of California. He had many contacts already over there, old friends that had been successful in the prosperous state. And he had put Raoul in charge of the business. Raoul was daunted, but had accepted the challenge hungrily. It was a way to show his father and brother exactly what he was capable of, a way to make them forget about his previous business ventures - including the Opera.

He turned to see his wife standing on the other side of the deck. Her hair blowing in the breeze; she looked at the horizon sadly. He made his way over to her and put an arm around her waist. He stroked her pregnant stomach protectively.

"Happy?" he whispered. She smiled at the way his voice tickled her ear.

"Yes, how could I not be?" She said, placing her hand atop of his. "…your daughter has been kicking again."

"My _son_ is going to be an athlete!" he countered.

"No, you are mistaken, monsieur; your _daughter _will be a beautiful ballerina!" She smiled, Raoul let a sigh escape.

"Please, anything but a dancer…"

She turned to face him, her eyes suddenly seeming worried.

"We will be happy, I promise. America will be a fresh start for the both of us. You will forget all about - " She stopped. Not wanting to say _that_ name.

" - all about Christine," he finished for her. His eyes suddenly became cloudy with emotion. Annabelle could only watch sadly, as once again he was pulled back into the past.

"I hope one day you will love me as much as you loved her…" she sighed. He put his thumb under her chin, and she raised her eyes to his.

"That was my old life - the past. It's the future I'm interested in…" he said as he placed a kiss to her forehead. "Never doubt my love for you, I did love Christine. But it was not meant to be. I learned that some people can never truly be saved; it's all over now. A different lifetime." she put her arms around him, wishing she actually believed him. She knew, deep down, that there would always be a small part of him that belonged to Christine. But she had his future. Christine was nothing more than a memory … a ghost.

"I love you, and I will love our child." Raoul pledged as he held her in a tight embrace. For the first time in years, he was happy. He looked at the horizon again, only to be greeted by a field of blue sea. France was gone forever; it was no longer part of his life.

"_Goodbye, sweet friend…" _his heart sighed; he then took his wife by the hand, and led her below deck.

oOo

Madame Giry waited patiently at the harbour. The journey to Calais had not been pleasant, the public coach had been full of strange looking individuals, none of whom appeared to be concerned with the merits of public hygiene. She had turned her nose up at first, especially at the hooded and cloaked ones. She assumed them all to be criminals, fleeing to try and find cheap passage abroad.

But then a sudden thought, she looked again, hopeful, maybe one of them was … but then she had stopped herself. Such silly hopes, she was a grown woman - she should know better.

There had been no new sightings for years, which was probably a blessing.

For the last two years she had been scrimping and saving, getting by on what she could make from private dance lessons, working as a seamstress, even minding local children. Meg continued to send small amounts of money from London, even though Madame Giry had told her not to, she and Christine were doing all they could to get by. But Meg wanted to do all she could to help, especially now.

But now her second season at the London Opera was over, Meg was coming home. And although Annette could feel the excitement swell inside her, she also felt an anxious dread. It was another mouth to feed. And she would no longer be able to conceal the truth from her daughter. Meg had been away for nearly two years. In this time, Madame Giry had been able to make her believe half truths and elaboration, but that could continue no longer. Meg was not stupid; she would want to know everything.

"Mamman!" an exited voice called from the other side of the harbour. "…Mamman!" Annette turned to see Meg sprinting towards her. Her beautiful blonde hair fanning out behind her as she ran, Meg reached her mother in seconds, and threw herself into her arms. She looked as vibrant and beautiful as when she had left for England.

"I have missed you so much, Mamman!" she giggled happily.

"Oh, I have missed you too, ma chérie!" Annette said, trying to hide the tears that threatened to fall. "More than you will ever know!" Annette could see a young gentleman following Meg sheepishly. His arms were full of luggage and his cheeks flushed. He was very well dressed, and handsome, in a flustered, English sort of way. Meg let go of her mother and walked to stand next to the young man. She looked nervous.

"Mamman, this is Peter…my fiancé…" she said as her cheeks blushed into a deep crimson. He dropped the luggage to the ground and held out his hand to the older woman. Madame Giry looked down at his hand for a few moments, and then shook it firmly. Her lips remained pursed into a grim line.

"It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Madame." he said politely in faultless French. "…I must correct Marguerite, we are not officially engaged, not yet. I would never ask such a thing without gaining the correct approval from you…" He smiled his nervous smile again. This pleased Annette somewhat, but she was still not happy about the situation. She would need to get to know this young man properly.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, monsieur. Meg has mentioned you in her letters; I look forward to getting to know you. Now, let us be getting home. It is a long journey back to Paris, the sooner we leave, the better." Annette said with a weary smile. Peter picked up the luggage and began to follow the women to the transport.

"Do you have accommodation, monsieur?" Madame Giry asked, turning to Peter.

"Mamman!" Meg chided under her breath, the older woman chose to ignore her.

"Yes, madame, my father lives in Paris, so I'll be staying with him." Madame Giry nodded, silently relived. Then Peter spoke again. "You must all come to dinner, he is very keen to meet you, and Christine, of course."

"Thank you, monsieur. That is very kind of you." she smiled as warmly as she could. Meg, who had been gazing at Peter, turned to her mother with worried eyes.

"Mamman, where is Christine?" she whispered, "…I thought she would be here with you, I haven't heard from her for so long…" Madame Giry felt her heart sink - it was starting already.

"She, was detained…in Paris, something that could not be helped. But she sends her apologies, and her love. You will see her shortly." Madame Giry said. She could not meet Meg's eyes.

Meg frowned, her mother seemed odd, almost uncomfortable. But she could not peruse this in front of Peter. She bit her lip, vowing to get to the bottom of her mothers strange behaviour as soon as she could. It seemed to be going well between Peter and her mother, better than expected.

In truth, she had been dreading this meeting for weeks. She knew how her mother could be, and so, she had lied in her letters, telling her mother that Peter was a friend. It was only on his sudden announcement that he was coming to Paris with her, much sooner than they had previously discussed, which had forced Meg to admit the truth. She didn't know why she had concealed the truth from her mother. She supposed it was because she didn't want her to worry; there had already been too much woe in their family.

Meg felt a new burst of excitement at the thought of seeing Christine again, it had been so long. At first, Christine's letters to Meg had been very frequent, full of her thoughts and feelings, and memories the two of them had shared. This was for the first six months, after that, the letters began to stop. Then they became more vacant, asking questions but providing no answers, like they were being written by somebody else.

Then, one day, no more came. Letters from her mother arrived regularly, and Christine was always mentioned. But it seemed she was always too busy to write a letter herself. Meg was confused; this had been very unlike Christine. And now her mother was acting strangely. Something was amiss.

Meg took Peter's hand as he helped her into the coach; she looked into his eyes and smiled. His love had always been steady and sincere, and she had been content with him in London. She loved him very much. But now she began to wonder just what strife would await them in Paris. And what new trouble she was introducing him to.

oOo

_Dr. Mathieu LaClaire,_

_242 Rue Jeanne d'Arc,_

_Amiens._

_23__rd__ October 1883. _

_My __dearest__ Mathieu:_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, when last we spoke I feared for you. You did not seem yourself, my friend, and it pains me to think of you in this way. You have always been the greatest believer in our dream, even more so than me, and I cannot let you give up on this great vision that we share. _

_This is the reason I write to you now, not only as a concerned friend, but as a colleague. Something has been brought to my attention, something that could help in the advancement of our cause. I beseech you to come to Paris at your earliest convenience, so I may discuss the case with you on a deeper level. For personal reasons, which I will disclose to you in person, I am unable to handle the situation myself. And so, I tell you this with optimism and trust, so that hopefully you will find a way to act on my behalf. _

_I have heard a story on my recent travels, one that I think will interest you very much. It was this story that originally brought me to Paris, I came in search of answers, but all I have uncovered are more questions, more mystery. At first, I did not quite believe this story, but it is all true, my friend, very true indeed._

_It is the recent events which concern us, but I will go onto that later. To understand the intricacies of this case, we must first go back several years, back to the very beginning. _

_I do not know if you will recall the mysterious events that took place in Paris two years ago, but it is a very strange affair, some now call it a legend, but as I said before, it really happened. _

_I shall now tell you the story, the tale of The Phantom of the Opera…_

oOo

It was to be morning before they reached Paris, the sky was already growing dark, and the roads ahead were blurred. A thick, veiling mist clouded the journey ahead.

"The worst fog I've seen for years!" Yelled the coach driver, "we'll have to stop, I won't drive through that, who knows what we might encounter along the way! There are some strange folk on these roads at night."

They stopped at a large, friendly inn in the centre of Abberville, a small but welcoming town north of Amiens. Madame Giry was worried; she had told Christine they may be late back, but she had not envisioned this. Christine was sure to be scared, all alone for the whole of the night. But, then, Christine was often in the dark these days; day or night. And there was nothing to do, they were stuck here, Annette could only pray that Christine would be all right.

They had secured two rooms, one for Peter and one for Madame Giry and Meg. The coach driver had advised that they all retire early, he hoped to leave by first light, provided the haze had lifted, and he would not hang around for late risers.

"Mamman, please, tell me what's wrong." Meg said, watching her mother brush her hair.

"Nothing is wrong, my child, rest now, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Mamman – please,"

"There is nothing wrong, Marguerite! Now, please, let me have some peace!" Madame Giry snapped, slamming the hairbrush down. Meg felt her eyes begin to well up. "Forgive me, I did not mean to snap," Annette said, sitting beside her daughter on the bed. She tucked a blonde lock of hair behind Meg's ear. "It has been a very long day; I will explain everything to you tomorrow. But now, we both need to rest."

"So there is something wrong!" Meg said, "Is it Christine? Has something happened to her?"

"Christine is fine, my dear, do not fret. Now, to bed with you! Or we shall miss the coach in the morning."

Meg sighed, and climbed into her small bed, knowing she would get no answers from her mother tonight. Madame Giry got into the other bed, and blew out the candle.

"Mamman," Meg whispered.

"Yes, Meg?"

"I did mean it before, when I said I had missed you. I'm really happy to be home."

"And I am happy to have you back, my dear. Paris hasn't been the same without you."

"Goodnight, Mamman."

"Goodnight, little Meg."

oOo

…_And now you can see, my friend, how this story raises more questions than it answers. Particularly the events of late, which are perplexing to even the most intelligent mind!_

_I have yet to meet the infamous mademoiselle Daae, from what I can gather, she now works as a seamstress with her adopted mother. But I do not want to meet her until the time is right, this is a very sensitive matter, and we must approach it with caution. This is imperative, the timing must be perfect. _

_I think we should speak to her adopted mother, Annette Giry, she could be the key to solving so many of the mysteries that cloak this case. And it is my sincere belief, that once she hears our proposal, she will allow us to talk to mademoiselle Daae. _

_I hope the information I have relayed to you sparks your interest. As I said to you before, this case depends on you. I am unable to conclude matters myself; you are the only person I trust to handle this! _

_I urge you to come to Paris upon receipt of this letter. _

_Your loving friend,_

_Dr. Ambrose Gaudin. _

oOo


	3. The Shrouded Assasin

_Commit a sin twice and it will not seem a crime. _

- Ethiopian Proverb

oOo

_**The Shrouded Assassin**_

oOo

The gloom stretched out into a corridor of dank misery. Erik made the passageway dark, he did not notice the lanterns on the wall, or the gold that shimmered in the shaky light. It was dark to him, everything black, the way it should be. The way it had once been.

He had been summoned to the rooms of the master of the house_. _But Erik liked to think of him as the man who blindly fed his need for opium and liquor. Erik had warned him, on their first meeting all those months ago, that a caged beast will always revolt. And that any attempt to bind him would result in a catastrophe for all who lived under this roof.

"I am no servant." He had warned. And now, it appeared that his warnings had been ignored.

Too long had he stayed here, bowing to the whims of a blood lusty heretic. When they had met, Erik had considered it to be a meeting of minds. Rajan, master of this great house, was a scholar with an avid interest in architecture, literature and_ torture_, every subject of which Erik was a master. An academic man who made his money from opium smuggling, Erik instantly knew he would like this fellow. Rajan wanted to learn all he could from his new masked friend. But Erik was beginning to see Rajan as a leech, sucking hungrily on his skills and talent.

And a leech must always be picked off and disposed of.

He walked into Rajan's rooms, he did not knock, nor did he announce his presence. The rooms took up most of the west side of the house, and were decorated, much like the rest of the house, in deep red and gold. It was clear, on entering these rooms, that Rajan was a man of exquisite taste. Everything he possessed had to maintain elegant finery. Nothing other than perfection would be tolerated. This included his women.

His small harem contained some of the most beautiful women in India. Many of whom, it had been said, could make a man weep with one glance. Adorned in beautiful silk of every colour. And dark, seductive eyes that peered out from elegantly veiled faces. Some of them had been presented to Erik as a gift, or a test of weakness, he could not yet decide which. All believing they could conquer the masked man. Whom the household had nicknamed _Shashi_ meaning _the moon. _For his white mask had proved to be an object of speculation and obsession ever since his arrival.

But to Erik, these women were all one and the same. Their obvious beauty was of no interest to him. And he laughed at their blind arrogance. He had seen real beauty only once, and his soul was forever enslaved to her…wherever she may be...

Rajan emerged from his bedchamber, impeccably dressed in his fine native clothing. He was followed by a beautiful young woman, Erik had met her before. But he could not remember her name; she was just another face. She lifted her eyes to him, and Erik saw the fear that was held there. Rajan saw him then also.

"Ah, Shashi, my friend! I did not think you would come so soon," His tone held all the grace of a divine host. He turned to the girl, "Leave us," she nodded and turned to walk away, her wide eyes never left Erik "oh, and tell Bala that she is to be here by nightfall." The girl turned and nodded to her master, then scurried from the room. Erik fixed his gaze on Rajan, watery contempt rippled in his gut.

"Come, my friend, let us talk a while." Rajan said, pointing gracefully to his study. Erik followed slowly. They seated themselves either side of Rajan's large deak.

"How long has it been since we met, Shashi?" Rajan asked, whilst stroking his black beard. His bushy eyebrows were knotted together.

"Eleven months." Erik stated.

"Ah, yes, eleven long months. We have enjoyed some great successes since that day, have we not?"

Erik did not answer, but gave the briefest of nods. At length, Rajan spoke again:

"I remember that day very well, I was in the city of Mumbai, overseeing delivery of my latest shipment. I knew, before I set out that night, that something extraordinary was about to occur. I could taste it in the air…something extraordinary… then I saw you, in a small corner, entertaining those small children with magic! You had them entranced, and as I watched, I found your skills had the same effect on me."

"I pulled myself together, and convinced myself you were merely another eccentric traveller, trying to fund one vice or another…" they both glanced at the long opium pipe, which sat proudly in the corner of the room, Rajan gave a small laugh. "Well, it seems I was right about one thing at least! Then, as I turned to leave, my servant, Ganesh, said something in his native Persian. Something that chilled me to my very core. _'Angel of Doom' _that is what he said, Shashi, he then proceeded to tell me about your time serving the shah in his homeland. I knew then, that certain skills of yours would be of great use to me."

Erik was sat back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms. "All of this I knew before." He said with a frown.

"I know I know…" said Rajan "But I wanted to recount the beginning of our acquaintance, we have achieved so many great things together, I felt the need to reminisce. We have achieved much in these last months, have we not, Shashi? Many great things…"

"We have shared the joy of the opium pipe, and I have played the part of your assassin, disposing of your vermin and torturing your enemies," Erik said, with a casual wave of his hand. "But I fail to see how any of these things can be accorded the title of _great._"

"You are a great and proficient killer, Shashi, the best I have ever known. I know it will sicken you to do so, but please, take that as a compliment. And I find that there is no mortal weakness in you, none at all…" Rajan said with wonderment, stroking his beard once again.

"What makes you say that?" said Erik.

"I have known many men in my fifty years on this earth, all of them having one weakness or another, some too many to recollect. Humans are, by nature, a weak species. But you seem to be different. May I be honest with you, Shashi?"

"If you feel it wise to do so."

"I have been testing you, in one way or another, to try and find the lowest point in your soul. And you have been immune to every weakness, you have passed every test. Your strength, it seems to know no bounds…"

"You are very wrong in this misplaced flattery, a man can hide anything, even weakness, as long as he knows the correct vault in which to store it." Erik said coolly. Crossing one leg over the other.

"You are too modest, my friend." Said Rajan "But if what you say is true, then you have been able to hide your flaws from me for nearly a year, _that_ is a skill indeed."

Erik smiled ironically. "I have shrouded myself for over thirty years, it is not a skill, it is a necessity."

Rajan was silent for a moment, contemplating Erik's words. Then he stood, and lit a tobacco pipe. He offered it to Erik, who shook his head.

"How very little I seem to know you," Rajan stated, inhaling the smoke deeply, "I wish to tell you a story, so you may see that you are not weak, not weak at all. It is the story of my cousin, Mukesh. He was always weak, since our infancy he was dependant on me. He always seemed to be involved in one some turmoil or another. When we became men, my grandfather gave us both an equal sum of money. To invest or spend as we saw fit, a sort of early inheritance, if you like. It was a tradition of his." He inhaled again.

"I will not bore you with the finer details, but events conspired to see Mukesh loose everything! All of it, and do you know _how _he lost his small fortune? He lost it all in the name of love! A beautiful young courtesan, she bewitched him. He played the part of a rich noble, showering her with gifts and flowers, and what did she do when the money ran out? She left him, married an old man with a small fortune!"

"Oh, how he begged her to reconsider, but she would not have it. And how he wept, he wept oceans over that woman! I would never let a woman make me weep, women are good for some things, but I find them to be simple creatures. Not worth weeping over. And yet he cried for her, she had him on all fours, grovelling like a dog! Have you ever heard such ludicrous? Such pathetic weakness! Do you agree, Shashi?"

Erik was silent. When he spoke his voice had a severe edge, like that of a newly sharpened blade.

"That depends," he began, "on your definition of weakness, and your definition of love. To love another, to _truly_ love another, is to succumb to utter weakness. There are none so enslaved as those in love…" he stared ahead vacantly, and then continued:

"I can tell, by the way you speak of women that you have never been in this degrading situation. But you see, to put your happiness at the will of another, to lay your future at her feet, and to be willing to die for privilege of her requited feelings. That takes strength greater than all other; it is a complete abandonment of the soul. So, do I agree that your cousin was weak? No, I do not."

Rajan took a deep puff on his pipe. Erik was staring blankly, as if he could see something Rajan could not. Rajan noticed that the masked man's fingers were gripping the arms of the chair tightly. His knuckles white.

"You speak from experience, my friend." Rajan said. It was not a question. "Tell me, was she beautiful?"

Erik's eyes snapped to his. "That is no conern of yours," he seethed. "Now, what was the real reason for my being here this evening?"

"For me to attain the reasons for your continued refusal of my gifts…" Rajan replied mildly "and it appears you have just given me my answer."

Erik composed himself, and straightened. Since leaving France, he had chosen to wear a mask that covered the whole of his face, choosing only to expose his eyes and mouth. Wearing half a mask had made him half human, it had given him half a soul: and half a heart. Covering his face made him like a shadow, hollow and black. He had dropped his soul into the pool of Lethe, and revelled in its rapid decent. Everything had now been erased, and he was cleansed of all lingering goodness.

"You seek to expose my darker side," Erik said "I must warn you against this." His voice was clipped and cool.

"I didn't think it was possible for a man to get any darker, my friend." Ragan replied. "Tell me, just how dark can you get?"

"I am the darkest shade of black."

Something in Erik's voice made Rajan's soul tremble.

"You should also be wary," Erik continued "It is wrong to mock a man for his weaknesses, push him too hard and you might expose his greatest power."

"And what would that be?" Rajan asked.

"His fury." Erik said in a scathing tone, his eyes had turned cold.

Rajan was now quite sure that he had been wrong to push this man. Just who was it that had been living in his home for nearly a year? Ganesh had warned him; about the darkness that had descended on Persia during the masked mans occupation there. Erik had killed many men since he had been here, and had been paid handsomely for his efforts. These had been no ordinary deaths, nor were they ordinary men. They were traitors and thieves. Well, at least to Rajan.

Ragan had spent years trying to capture them, but his efforts were always thwarted. The best assassins in India could not catch them; spies from the great palace could not catch them. But armed only with the smallest amounts of information, Erik had delivered them every time. Taking only a few days to find and capture his victims. Rajan did not quite know how the masked man had done it, and something deep inside told him that he did not want to know. Some things are best to remain a mystery.

But he had seen the way Erik killed. And it was something he could never forget. Erik would be covered completely in a black cloak, the large hood like a curtain around his head, and a black mask covering his face. It was like looking into midnight. A faceless assailant, sent to drag them into hell. Two pools of blazing amber roared out from the shadow. Terror could not adequately describe what those men must have felt in those moments. The moment they came face to face with death himself.

Erik had black malice inside of him, this were clear by the unusual methods of his torture. He would first blindfold them, and tie them up in a small, dark chamber. Then he would simply wait in the shadow, sometimes for hours. The victim did not know when he would choose to strike. They would go mad, begging for death, begging for anything. The not knowing was the worst of all. Rajan had never seen grown men shake and cry in such a way and many would wet themselves in terror.

Erik would also sing, and whisper, his voice would surround them. It would dig its way into their skin, bite at their veins, and consume their ears. It was everywhere and then nowhere at all. Rajan could feel it too, in the back of his eyes, swirling around his nostrils, penetrating his mind until his head fell back, exhausted and lifeless, tortured with absolute pleasure. And then the voice would leave. It was like it had never been there at all, the silence that remained was too loud, and he would want the voice to come back…

Then, in a quick, fluid strike, the voice was gone, there would be a sickening snap, and the victim would fall. Instant and rapid death, Erik would throw his lasso to the floor, and leave the chamber. Then he would not be seen for days.

When finally Rajan felt his body return to normal, he realised just how powerful Erik was. Too powerful, he was danger, it was like letting a wild, feral lion play amongst a small band of kittens. Rajan had a sudden, sickening revelation. He had let this lion run loose; he had given him the power to do this. He had made Erik kill these men, and in the process, made Erik the real master of the house. Erik had control, even over him. That voice had the ability to control everything.

He dreaded to think what others horrors had been conjured up and executed by that dark mind. Just how many ways could a neck snap? The last time Erik had killed for him, however, something had changed. Rajan had witnessed a different side to his cloaked friend, a side he doubted he would ever see again…

oOo

The victim was a man was named Siam, a man who had once been Rajan's closest ally. They had spent the best part of their adolescence together. In fact, it was Siam who had first introduced Rajan to the Opium pipe; they had bonded over the sweet, addictive fumes. They began to smuggle the drug, and through Rajan's contacts in China, began to smuggle the drug into parts of Europe. But as time passed on, this was not enough for Siam. Greed got the better of him, as it had done with so many Opium addicts. And he left one night, with large quantities of Rajan's Opium. It was not the act itself that had angered Rajan so, but the betrayal of trust. This was something he could not, and would never tolerate. And so, Erik had been dispatched to find Siam: and find him he did.

Siam had begged, more so than any other man, for forgiveness. He had cried and pleaded for his life to be spared, protesting that he had a young bride, who would surely starve without him to provide for her. But this had no effect on Rajan, and he had instructed Erik to prepare the chamber of death. There had been a look in Erik's eyes as he left, somewhere between fury and pity. Rajan had felt its stabbing effect in his gut. Then Siam cried that she was also with child, and by condemning him, they were sending an innocent infant to its grave.

"She is such a fragile creature," he sobbed "she will not have the strength to raise the child alone, please, she needs me!"

"Then you will surely see them both in the afterlife." Rajan had sneered. Erik had stopped and was now standing very still.

"What is her name?" he asked slowly.

"Orissa," Siam choked "please, do not leave her all alone in this world. I'll do anything!" Erik turned, and was now looking at Rajan, the look of pity still alight in his eyes.

"Well?" he asked "shall I proceed with the execution?"

This was the first time Rajan had seen Erik exhibit any form of mercy, and he wondered just what it was about Siam that had caused this subtle change. Every man that Erik had brought back had a reason not to be killed, there was always a story laced with remorse and tears. But this had never deterred the masked man before.

"I do not believe this tale, Shashi, this man could lie his way into the heavens. And I do not believe there would be a woman stupid enough to marry him…Prepare the chamber."

"Very well," Said Erik gravely, and he left without another glance back.

The death had been swift, almost instantaneous. Then Erik disappeared for a few days, and when he returned, he went straight to Rajan in a wild temper. Rajan was sitting at his desk, and looked startled by Erik's arrival.

"It was true," Erik scowled "I saw his wife with my own eyes, and she is with child!" Rajan stopped writing, and began to stroke his beard. Erik was pacing furiously; his knuckles were clenched into rock.

"Ah, so the swine _was_ telling the truth!" Rajan said with a half chuckle.

"So it seems," Erik said as he helped himself to a glass of liquor, he drank it back quickly and slammed the glass down. "No more deaths," his tone was hoarse. "I will not kill for you again." He then turned on his heal, and strode from the room. Rajan sat in reflection, vowing to find the reason for this change in Erik.

oOo

Rajan was brought back to the present by the weight of Erik's eyes upon him. He did not know how long the masked man had been staring at him, but he felt as though those eyes were analysing every pore of his flesh. There seemed to be a silent animosity growing between the two men, and they were both privately aware that their acquaintance could not continue for much longer, lest one might try to kill the other.

"When does the next shipment arrive?" Erik asked.

"I leave for Mumbai in two days."

Silence radiated between them. At length, Erik spoke again.

"I have been thinking that the time might be right for me to leave this house, and India. I cannot intrude on your _kind _hospitality forever."

Rajan relit his pipe, and inhaled a large amount of smoke.

"If that is what you wish. You have paid me many a great service, I feel I can deny you nothing, Shashi."

"My name is Erik." Said the masked man, Rajan smirked, he knew his nickname had always irritated Erik. "And yes, it is my wish to leave."

"Then let me put this proposal to you, my friend, as one last favour to me. I have a shipment leaving in one week, for London. And I need someone to oversee it. Someone trustworthy,"

Erik was listening intently, his interest sparked. Rajan continued.

"This seems to be a solution to both of our problems, does it not? Oversee this shipment for me, and I will see you gain safe passage out of India. I have a man that will meet you at my secret location, as soon as you step foot on English soil, you are free of all ties to me."

"And what is this man's name?"

"Henry Cranmer, I will not lie to you, Erik, he is not a pleasant fellow. I believe him to be underhand, unscrupulous, and untrustworthy – and I am certain the two of you will get on very well!"

Erik thought hard, it was clearly a solution to his current situation. And he had intended to return to Europe, eventually. It looked as though his homecoming was going to be much sooner than he had anticipated.

"Very well," he said "I accept this offer."

They both stood and shook hands, Rajan felt as though Erik would crush his smaller hand in those long fingers. Erik held his hand in a deadly grip. Rajan was glad that this man would soon be out of his life forever.

Erik sighed; he could feel a pale melancholy descend upon him. Something about this seemed foolish, and dangerous. It was wrong to stray so close to home, when he was so lost and far from sanity. Temptation might call to him upon the wind…

But, surely after all of this time, the whispers of the past would not be able to reach him, and if they did, he would simply close his ears.

In the same way he had shrouded his soul.

oOo


	4. A Face by Any Other Name

_I years had been from home,  
And now, before the door,  
I dared not open, lest a face  
I never saw before._

Emily Dickinson – I years had been from home.

oOo

_**A Face by Any Other Name.**_

oOo

The carriage pulled to a dead halt, the wheels slowly stopping, crying out under the last turn. The horses tossed their heads and moaned, as the soft autumn sunshine made patterns on their thick black skin. The noises of city life abused their ears. The driver jumped down and patted each of them on their muscled flanks. Then he opened the door for his passengers.

Paris smelt the same; it engulfed Meg as soon as she stepped down from the coach. Bread, smoke and the lingering hint of soft rain, all warmed by the rays of morning sun. She let the scent wash over her, and closed her eyes, the sun warmed her pale cheeks. She wanted only to smell and to listen…

The people chattered, shouted, and laughed. And somewhere, in the distance, there was music, immersed secretly in the sounds of life. Meg could feel her tongue again, she was so aware of the words, her native language was alight within her. The accents were velvety, and slid into her ears. She had missed the silky vowels and gentle flow of French. She had enjoyed the novelty of the English language, but it was nothing compared to the sensitive and seductive tones of home. She was not foreign here, nor a stranger. She opened her blue eyes and looked at Paris in all of its glory.

It was the same, just the same. Paris had not stopped in her absence. It continued to charge forward, with the same relentless force it always had. The people were the same, their faces older perhaps, but their souls were the same. The beating heart of home was alive inside of her again. And now that she was back, she did not know why she had stayed away so long.

Behind her, Peter was taking with Madame Giry, Meg managed to catch the last fragments of their conversation.

"…it is on the _Rue d'Antin_ you must know it, madame. It's near the Opera -" Then he stopped, he looked to be biting his tongue.

"Ah, yes. I do know it, monsieur. Near were the Opera _once stood_," She was smiling, trying to calm his apparent fear of her.

"Yes," he said, smiling too "that's what I meant."

"What is near the Opera?" said Meg.

"My father's house," Said Peter "well, when I say _near_ to the Opera, he's actually…"

"It must be a rather grand house to be in that part of the city!" Said Meg, cutting in, Peter said nothing, but smiled warmly at his bride to be. There would another time to explain to her about his father.

"Come, let us get these bags in from the streets!" exclaimed Madame Giry. Lifting as many bags as she could, she ignored Peter's offer of help. Meg laughed at the way her mother was carrying the bags, and ran up the stairs to open the door for her. Peter picked up the remaining cases and followed them into the small house, kissing Meg on the forehead as he passed her in the doorway.

oOo

From beneath the brim of his hat, the man watched, he held the letter tightly between his fingers. This was the place, most definitely. And this must be _her_ family. He had watched as their transport had pulled up, and observed the pleasantries that had been made with the driver. The family laughed and smiled, and moments later disappeared into the confines of the house.

The girl looked young, her hair was that of melting sunshine, and there was a free and contented air to her. She was all youth and brightness. The older woman was different, although her facial features were like that of the younger girl, her manner seemed to be stern and sober. She stood with rigid accuracy, and it was clear she carried the troubles of others within her bones. There had been no mention of a young man before, and his identity was a mystery. But it was clear, from expressions and body language, that he was romantically linked with the younger girl.

After lingering for a few more moments, he instructed the driver to move on. He had already seen all that needed to be seen. And it was time to reflect upon all that his old friend had told him. He had vowed not to become involved in this, he did not want to be involved! But his friend's words had captured him, and he found himself yearning to know more. It seemed he was going to be in Paris much longer than he had originally anticipated.

"Where to now, sir?" asked the driver.

"The last time I was here I visited a charming café on the _Rue de Vaugirard_…but I forget the name…"

"_Café Medicis_ is the only one I remember from there, sir. It's just up on the left here! Charming little place…"

"Yes, yes that's the one. Thank you. That will do nicely."

oOo

As they entered the house, a sterile coldness smothered Meg. It was not like the fresh coldness of outside, it was a chill that froze through the skin, and clung inside the pores. It felt like pure frost lined the walls. She shuddered. Christine was nowhere to be seen.

"She must have gone out early again this morning," said Madame Giry casually, pulling at the drapes and fluffing the cushions. Some sunlight made its way into the room, but it did little to shift the desperate chill. Peter and Meg stood in the doorway.

"Mamman, it's so cold!" said Meg, her teeth chattering together. Peter looked at the fireplace, a fresh pile of firewood sat there. Madame Giry followed his eyes and saw it too.

"I left that for her before I came to collect you!" she exclaimed, rubbing her top lip with her fingers. There was more wood in the basket next to the fire, none of it had been used. Madame Giry tried not to let her concern show. "Christine does not seem to notice the cold these days; I often find her sitting here, having forgotten to light the fire."

"But this is a most unforgivable climate to live in, she will make herself ill!" Said Peter, Meg was looking between him and her mother with worried eyes. Peter knew he needed to do something to break the growing silence.

"Here, let me help you light the fire, madame. I think we all need a bit of warmth, and I'm sure Christine will be glad of it when she returns," He said, rushing over and trying to light the hearth. Within a few moments, the fire was beginning to melt the iciness of the room. Madame Giry disappeared to make some tea, and Meg was crouching by the fledging fire, trying to soak in some of its warmth. Peter moved Meg's bags upstairs.

They all sat down to drink the tea, and immersed themselves in casual chat, talking merrily of Meg's time in London, and the trips she and Peter had taken to the English countryside. Madame Giry was beginning to warm to this young man; he was a very amiable fellow. And she was becoming fond of his pleasant manner, there didn't appear to be any dark secrets lingering beneath the surface. Their relationship seemed to be happy and uncomplicated, with no mysteries or masquerading.

The conversation soon turned to the inevitable conclusion; Christine. Her name could be avoided no longer, and Peter could sense the apprehension of this subject. He had never met Christine, but Meg talked of her so often that he felt as though he knew her. He knew at once that he should leave, and give Madame Giry the chance to explain everything to her daughter.

"Well, ladies, I think it is time I took my leave." He said, preparing to stand. Meg put her hand on his arm.

"Do you have to go so soon?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid my father is expecting me, and I'm sure the two of you have much to catch up on," he stood, and adjusted his coat, he held out his hand to Madame Giry, and she shook it warmly. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Madame. And, please, give my regards to mademoiselle Daae. I hope to meet her soon."

"It was a pleasure to meet you too, and yes, I will pass on your regards to Christine, she will be sorry she missed you."

"I'll show you to the door," said Meg, and they left the sitting room together. From the window, Madame Giry watched Peter descend the steps with his bags, and hail a hansom. He waved back at Meg, and then the cab disappeared.

When Meg entered the sitting room again, Madame Giry was sitting in a chair, a small envelope in her hand.

"Please, have a seat my dear." She said, "There is something I need to give to you."

oOo

Mathieu la Claire descended the steps of his hansom cab, he paid the driver twice what was needed to secure the man's discretion. For it was not everyday a young man came to Paris, and made the driver spy upon the innocent residents. But it had been necessary; he wanted to learn as much he could about mademoiselle Daae before he met her. This included the sort of family she had, and where she currently resided. And a picture was coming together nicely in his head.

He entered _Café Medicis_ and ordered a pot of tea and a pastry. He found a table in the corner of the room, and sat, reading the letter over again and again. The story sent chills through him, and he felt a sincere pity for all those involved. He had enjoyed a happy and simple upbringing in Amiens, with loving parents and a warm home. This was like a story from a book, heart wrenching and cold, and his sense told him not to believe it. But, as Ambrose had said in his letter, _it really happened…_

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of a young girl, she was sitting in the window, and staring out onto the Paris streets. His mind was now lost, and all of his thoughts were abandoned. She was beautiful! He noticed her skin, it was white and smooth. He admired the way the sunlight made patches on her face, illuminating her high cheekbones, and the curve of her lips. They were parted slightly, as if in wonder, or distant despair. And her hair was pulled back into a bun, but much of it had escaped the pins, and now hung in ringlets around her face. It shone with deep tones of chestnut and red. And then there was her neck, long, graceful and thin. Her pale hands were clasped around her cup.

He was completely mesmerised by her, but she seemed ignorant to the rest of the world. Her mind was a much more interesting place to be. She was an angel to him, calved out of the whitest melancholy.

The tea maid bumbled around tables with a tray, clumsily piling the empty cups onto it. They clattered and wobbled as she walked. She noticed Mathieu staring at the young woman, a smirk faired across her chubby face. And, noticing his empty cup, she made her way to his table.

"Is this one finished with?" she asked, but he did not answer, he was still staring at the young girl. The waitress continued:

"She sits there every day, same time, same table. And just stares, I wouldn't mind, but she only buys the one cup of tea, and then sits there till the damn things gone cold…"

"Do you know her name?" Mathieu asked, still staring.

"Oh yes, everyone knows _her_ name, she's the young one who got mixed up in that scandal a few years back…what was her name again, Catherine, ah, err…no that's not right. Camilla? No, Christine! That's it, Christine Daae!" Mathieu felt his mouth fall open, he stared at the waitress in disbelief. The young girl's eyes snapped over to them, Mathieu looked back over to her table, but she had gone. The door of the tea room slammed shut. He jumped up, ready to chase after her, but then he remembered the letter. The timing had to be perfect, and it was clear that she was already jumpy. And what would he say to her if he did catch up to her? She did not know him, and he did not know her. He sat back down, and rested his face in his hands.

"Was it something I said?" laughed the waitress. She walked away and sniggering, leaving Mathieu so dwell upon the beauty of that face.

If only she had been someone else! His mind screamed. If only she had a different name. He had become bewitched by the only girl in the world he could not fall for. The girl whose heart he knew already belonged to someone else. He could not fall for her, it would ruin everything if he did. All that Ambrose had discovered would be useless. But at least now he understood how such beauty had driven two men to the edge of despair.

Another piece of the mystery fell into place…

oOo

"What is this, mamman?" asked Meg, turning the envelope over with her fingers.

"Something I should have given to you long ago," sighed Madame Giry. "Please take your time and read it, Cherie. And know that I am sorry." Annette stood, and left her daughter alone. Meg opened the letter and began to read, her eyes shaking across the words. It was dated January 1882, Meg paled as she realised this letter had been written nearly two years ago, only a month after she had left for London.

_My dearest Meg,_

_I know you are anxious to hear from Christine, and I promise that she will write to you soon. I know you love to receive personal correspondence from her. But, my dear I am afraid that at this present time, Christine does not seem to be herself, the change in her has been quite remarkable. She is so detached, my dear, so distant from everything around her. And I can account it to only one thing. You know what I speak of, and the impact it has had upon our dear girl. _

_She came to me, not a week__ ago, in a very agitated state, and talked to me for some time about him. I realise now, that I should have encouraged her to speak of this, much sooner. We should have all spoken of it. Not dusted it away like a shameful secret, if only I had done this, I might have saved Christine from months of torment and suffering. _

_I am aware now, as I have been for these past years, that what Christine wants, and what she thinks she wants, are two very different things. She keeps her heart a secret, even to herself, because she is scared of it. What her heart wants is strange to her, you see, my dear, Christine is a sensible girl, with a wild heart. And so she has caged herself, and she does not know how to be free. Sometimes I wonder if she actually wants to be free. It is easy to live in a cage, if you love your master. _

_She loves him, Meg, I will not write his name, for I fear I cannot, but we both know of whom I speak. She knows this now, but she knows not what to do. She has not told me in words, but I can see it in her eyes. And I cannot help her. The tragedy burns inside of me. That, perhaps in a different time, and a different place, there would be space for a love such as theirs. When the world has grown, and will no longer shun a genius because of his face, and when a young girl will not be afraid of her own heart. Oh, how different this could all have been! _

_But it does no good to speak of such things, the past cannot be changed. Existence has conspired against them. And I am sure of only one thing. That there is still more to come! Destiny will not leave them alone, fate is cruel, and it will make them face each other again. I cannot see where this will all end, or what dark conclusion awaits us all._

_Christine seems to be slipping from me, and from le Vicomte, we do not know what to do. It pains me to have to burden you with this, my child, but I needed to write this all down, to make sense of this tangled web. Before time comes to collect my sanity!_

_Your__ loving mother, _

_Annette Giry. _

Meg felt the paper go limp in her hands, she hadn't noticed her mother enter the room, and jumped at the sight of her in the next chair. There were tears in Meg's eyes, but she did not seem to be angry.

"You could have sent this to me, mamman; I wish you had not suffered this burden all alone! I would have coped, I would've come home!"

"No, my dear, don't you see? That is the reason I did not send this to you. I knew you would return. You had already been through so much; I could not see you go through any more…" The look on Madame Giry's face made Meg feel a deep apprehension. And she could not find her voice, her throat became painfully dry. At length Madame Giry spoke again. "But, this was to be only the start, little did I know what was about to happen."

"Mamman, please tell me,"

"Very well," sighed the older woman "I will start from the beginning."

oOo


	5. A Night on the Ice

_May you not rest, as long as I am living._

_You said I killed you – haunt me, then!_

_Be with me always, take any form – drive me mad!_

_Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!_

- Emily Bronte – Wuthering Heights.

oOo

_** A Night on the Ice**__._

oOo

Meg sat, waiting; her mother had her eyes half closed, staring into the fire that now blazed furiously. Silence surrounded them, only the crackling and spitting of the fire and the steady ticking of the mantelpiece clock interrupted the quiet. They sounded quite good together, it was strange, that two sounds that should never be heard together, should create such a curious harmony. Meg found herself joining in, singing along inside her head, the tick, then the crackle, then the spit. Over and over, until she felt she was going mad. Then Madame Giry began to speak. And Meg's head fell silent. Her mother's voice was low and cool.

oOo

"It was the January before last, which now seems so very long ago. It was the worst winter for many, many years. It began to snow one day, it snowed for what seemed like an eternity! Christine and I had to dig a path from the front door. She was very scared, you see, that we might get trapped inside, and she would not listen to my protests that it would never happen. And so we dug all of the snow away from the front door, for her piece of mind. And then she seemed to be happy, when some passing children began to throw snowballs, she joined in. Throwing them back and laughing. She was, in that moment, so young and carefree. I remember that, later as we warmed ourselves by the fire, she mused about how cold it must be underground. But when I asked her what she meant, she simply smiled, and sipped her tea."

"Paris came to quite a standstill, it was chaos, many hansom cabs refused to drive in such conditions, and people were forced to travel everywhere by foot. Christine and I would still get up every morning, as day was breaking, and make the journey across the city. It was hard, the cold made life so unbearable. One day I made the mistake of taking the route past the Opera, the convenience of the route outweighing my caution, this was the quickest route to where we work, you see, and the cold was so unbearable. As we walked past the grand ruin, Christine stopped. She stood staring up at the decaying structure; I don't know what else I had expected! I had been very foolish to take this path, very foolish! I stood next to her, and stared also.

'"It's so dark inside," Christine said, with tears in her voice, "All the light has gone, I, I didn't realise how dark it would be."'

"I told her that a building is only as alive as those who inhabit it, and that now the Opera was empty, it was only natural for the light to go out. She turned those big eyes upon me, and I knew what she wanted to ask. But she seemed too afraid."

'"Do you think…?" she began, but stopped, and gave me a wry smile, followed by a sigh. "We should go." She swallowed hard, defeated by her own fear, and I knew she was trying to quell the tears that remained behind her eyes."

"I wanted to answer the question that she had nearly had the courage to ask, I wanted to tell her that he was probably still down there, rotting away with his Opera house. His own self hatred making him more and more black inside! For it had only been two months since she had left, I knew he would still be there, I could still feel his presence. Yes, he would still be there, clinging to a fragment of hope that Christine might return to him!"

"But instead, I kept these thoughts inside, what good would it have done to tell her? I agreed with her that we should go, for we were already likely to be very late. I think she sensed that I was holding something back; she could hear my silent lie. I will never forget the look in her eyes, her whole manner seemed to change, and she seemed a bit brighter somehow. It was as if I had answered her unspoken question, perhaps it was the look upon my face, I do not know. And she smiled again, and we walked on, leaving the Opera behind."

"And so, a few days passed without another word of the Opera, or its lone inhabitant. Everything felt normal, le Vicomte was a regular visitor, and he and Christine went out to dine on several occasions. But although she was always polite in receiving his attentions, it seemed to me that Christine was always much happier at home. She would sit in her chair and sew for hours, mending anything she could find. She would rarely speak of Raoul or their engagement. Instead she preferred to reminisce on the old times in the Opera, and all of the names and faces she remembered. I tried to encourage her to begin to plan her wedding, but she would simply smile, and tell me that it would all be sorted soon. And it seemed, to me, that we were finally finding a sense of normalcy."

"But how wrong I was, how very wrong indeed. It took only one day for everything to change. It was a day that started out much like any other, except that it was Christine's day off, and so I set out alone that morning. I left her sitting in her chair, mending a dress le Vicomte had given to her. Looking back, I suppose that she was a little quiet, but at the time I did not think anything of it. I bid her farewell, and set off out onto the snow covered streets, and I went to work without another thought."

"The snow fell again that day, covering the ice in a thick layer of cloud. It was deadly, especially to the hansom cabs, I heard that at least two had overturned that day, and now even more were refusing ride out. It took me three hours to get across the city; by the time I was near home I was so very weary. I saw our house in the distance, and the de Chagny carriage was outside, this was not unusual. Le Vicomte often called around to see Christine; she was his fiancée after all. But as I passed the carriage, the driver remarked that his master had been inside for many hours, and that he had heard shouting, he had knocked on the door several times, but received no answer. I forgot all about my fatigue and raced inside the house."

"It was very strange, as I entered the house, there was an eerie calm, but I could hear their raised voices through the door. Le Vicomte sounded composed but Christine sounded wild, her voice was thick and raspy."

'"And how do you intend to stop me? Wrap me up in chains, keep me at your side forever?" she was screaming this. He told her to calm down; I remember that even though he sounded angry, there was a polite tone to his request. "Do not tell me to calm down! You are the one keeping me here, when all I want to go is leave, I need to go, Raoul, I _need_ to go! You must let me leave! What do you want from me?" I heard him cry out then, the edges of his voice were as bitter as the crisp frost outside."

'"What do I _want_ from you? Oh, God! Christine, is it not obvious? I have waded through Hell to be with you, for _this_, to be with you now! And what I _want _from you is the one thing you seem unable to give; love, Christine. That is all I want from you, love. But I'm starting to wonder if have the capacity, I have done all I can, I feel like I don't know you at all!"'

"There were no more raised voices, only a slight murmur of muffled words. I heard sobbing sounds through the thick mahogany. This was Christine, I could tell, and I could not make her words out. But I knew what she was going to say, what she was already saying. And I had to stop her, lest she might loose Raoul forever."

"I entered the room. Christine was sitting in a corner, crying uncontrollably, her small shoulders shaking. Le Vicomte looked at me helplessly; he stood in an effigy of violent shock, his face was sullen and white. I knew then that I was too late. I could see it in his face; Christine had freed her soul from its guilt, and severed his heart with the sharp confession. There was no noise, I could see Christine crying, but I couldn't hear her, or feel her. Le Vicomte looked to be swaying, and then, he descended down slowly into the chair, and rested his face in his gloved hands. I felt like my head was below the water, and everything was so slow, we were all of us drowning."

"Christine had her head in her knees, her fists were tightened together. She was digging her nails into the soft flesh of her palms, in an attempt to draw blood, to cleanse her body of the guilt and the pain. I rushed to her and pulled her hands apart, and she looked up, her big eyes flooded with grief, and now the world returned to me. I could hear again. I held her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me."

'"I'm sorry, Madame -" she sobbed. "But I couldn't…"'

'"Ssshh, it is alright, chérie, please try to calm yourself…"' I said, stroking her soft hair."

'"It burns, Madame, it burns…I needed to stop the burning!"' her tortured eyes darted across my face, seeking understanding and reassurance. But I could not find the strength to offer what she so desperately sought. Because I _did not_ understand, but my heart bled for her, and so I told her that it would all be alright. And I stroked her white cheek and she seemed to calm down. But her words flew through my mind like blind angels."

"I heard a voice from somewhere, telling me that we should to put her to bed; I recognised it as le Vicomte, and agreed. She was staring ahead, trancelike, and she did not protest when Raoul picked her up. She made no struggle, and was doll like in his arms. He did not once look down on her; he simply carried her to her room and laid her on her small bed. The room was dark, only a single shaft of light came through from an opposing streetlamp, le Vicomte left the room. And I prayed that I had been the only one to notice the small suitcase that lay at the foot of the bed, with a thick travelling cloak folded neatly atop of it. I put a blanket over Christine, and tried to put the meaning from my mind."

"I do not know what I had expected when I returned downstairs, perhaps I had expected le Vicomte to have gone; yes, that is just what I had expected. But instead I found him sitting on the divan, a bottle of brandy and a glass sat in front of him."

'"I hope you don't mind," he said, motioning to the glass, I shook my head. "I needed something … something strong." I sat down on the opposite side, and asked, in the calmest voice I could, exactly what had happened. He sighed, and swirled the brown liquid around in the glass."

'"She, she was not herself." He stuttered, still in obvious shock, "I called around, unexpectedly, I meant to surprise her, she was, not herself…" he sank the drink back. And I urged him to continue, but I began feel a cold prickle of anxiety spread across the back of my head."

'"She was acting very strangely, and then, she asked me to leave. But I couldn't, not until she told me what was wrong…she went mad, then she broke off our engagement," I could see that the pain was still raw within him. "She told me she could never be my wife, not the one I deserved, and that she finally understood; she kept repeating that, telling me that it was all alright. And that she understood now. She said she had to go, that it was the right time. I think I knew what she meant, but I had to hear her say the words, but she would not tell me, she just kept saying that she needed to leave. And I got angry, I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. And then she told me…just before you came in." I asked him, with dread, exactly what she had said."

'"That it was him, she loved, not…not me, _him_."'

"His voice coiled around that word with venom, his handsome face was pulled into a frown. He rubbed his forehead wearily, trying to reason this bizarre truth to himself. I mirrored his expression, but I felt guilty, I had known this; but I had hoped to be proven wrong."

'"Do you think, she…" le Vicomte began, "How can this be?" there were tears in the corners of his eyes."

'"Neither of us can understand just how deeply this has affected her, monsieur. I have been a fool; I should have never expected things to return to normal so soon."'

'"Normal?" he scoffed, almost laughing. "When has her life _ever _been normal?" I could not disagree with him "You cannot blame yourself, Madame Giry; you have done more for her than anyone."'

'"We will know more when she wakes, but first, I must tell you -" but I had not the time to finish this sentence. The front door clicked shut; we both heard it, our eyes shot together. Before I knew it I was following le Vicomte, into the hallway, and out of the front door. My eyes searched the streets wildly, there were some people, trudging through the snow, and struggling against the icy wind. But they were all completely anonymous, faceless, white corpses drifting in the winter air, all the same. I searched for her, for that small, perfect form amongst the drifters. But I could not see her, and I felt like I was drowning again, but this time below a thick slate of ice."

"We ran out the small street, out onto the main road, both calling her name franticly. Then, I felt le Vicomte's hand on my arm. He pointed, to a small, waif like figure in the distance, struggling with her suitcase across the snow, trying desperately to hail a hansom. He ran, and I followed, but he was faster than I, even on the ice. He seemed to reach her in seconds, or so it seemed to me, everything else around me continued to be slow, except for the two of them in the distance. He grabbed her case, and pulled her by the wrist, holding onto her desperately. She tried to write away, pleading with him. I was almost near them, only on the opposite side of the road, I was so close. She finally managed to pull herself free, but she slipped, and…"

oOo

Madame Giry stopped; her grief had suddenly smothered her tongue. She sat with her hands clasped to her mouth and her eyes closed; the fire was dying now, and was silent. Meg had moved sat on the floor next to her mother. Fresh, hot tears gathered in the young girls eyes.

"Mamman, please…" she urged, needing to know what had happened to her friend.

Madame Giry took a deep, laboured breath, and opened her eyes. She took a sip of her tea, which had long gone cold, but it soothed her patched throat. After a few moments, she began to talk again.

oOo

"Christine slipped; the force with which she pulled herself free of Raoul caused her to loose her footing. And she fell into the road. I will never forget the look on le Vicomte's face; he dropped the case and tried to catch her. And in that moment, I saw her reach for him; she was finally going to let him save her. But he could not get to her in time, and she hit the ground. She did not scream, but her small body hit the cold ground. It was a sound that made the soul flinch, small bones crashing upon the frost. And she lay very still. I finally reached them. Oddly enough, it was the ice that saved her life, had she fallen into the road on a normal day, she would have been crushed by the carriage wheels, but as it was, the very few that were on the road had stopped. And a small crowd was gathering around us."

"I studied her, she had hit her head, and her leg had twisted strangely beneath her, but she was alive. I could still feel her pulse beating beneath her skin. Le Vicomte was just staring; he did not seem to hear me when I said we needed to get her to a hospital, luckily a man in the small crowd was a hansom driver. And he helped me carry Christine to his cab, but Raoul just stood, motionless. There was no time for me to try and talk sense into him, I needed to help Christine. And so I left him there, the poor boy, standing in the snow. I looked back, as we drove away, and he was still there, standing alone, like an orphan lost in the storm."

oOo

Madame Giry shivered, and got up to stoke the fire. Meg was still sitting on the floor, perplexed; she felt that she still knew little about the fate of Christine. But her mother was now busying herself with the tray of tea, clearing up the empty cups. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. Meg climbed back into her chair and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. Thinking over everything her mother had told her. Christine loved _him? _It could not be so! And yet, somehow, it made sense. It made everything clearer, in a way, her behaviour at the Bal Masque, her reluctance to perform in Don Juan…her _secret _engagement. Meg had long supposed all of these things to be out of fear, but had fear turned into something else, something deeper? She tried to remember what the Phantom had looked like, but all she could see was that large, black, tortured shadow…

"Meg!"

"Huh, yes mamman?"

"I was asking if you had any questions."

Madame Giry threw some more fire wood into the hearth. It was consumed eagerly by the crackling flames. She sat back down, awaiting the questions from her daughter.

"Yes mamman, what happened to Christine, is she alright?"

"Oui, it seemed all she had was a very badly sprained ankle, and concussion. On the surface, it was all alright. A week of bed rest and she would be back on her feet. But you must remember, Meg, that not all injuries are physical. Some go deeper, and are harder to heal."

Meg looked confused. "What do you mean mamman? Did Christine…was she, driven mad?" Madame Giry sighed. This was going to be the hardest bit to explain.

"No, no she is not 'mad' child. But after her fall, she was different. Things changed between her and Raoul; at first she would not see him at all. And when she did, she would not speak of that night. I felt for him, the poor boy. He was a shell of his former self, and yet, he could not give up on her. They are joined, you see, from their childhood. I think he will always try to be there for that girl, the girl he knew and loved. But Christine is a woman now, and that is the problem. This went on for many months, but her resolve would not change. And so, reluctantly, he moved on. He called by, on the morning of his wedding, to see her one final time. I do not know what passed between them, but that was the last I saw of him."

"Poor Raoul, who did he marry?"

"Annabelle Duchamp, she was a family friend, highly approved of by his family. But I know nothing else about her. Christine kept the paper, with the announcement that he was married; it is folded neatly away in a draw. Like the rest of her memories."

"Did she never try to leave again, did she never try to find the – um -"

"Erik." Madame Giry finished for her, Meg looked confused.

"Who is Erik?"

"You know him as _Monsieur_ _Fantôme_, but his real name is Erik. And no, Christine did not seek him out."

"So, she did not ever try to find him, in a year and a half?" Meg saw her mother's eyes fall to the floor.

"No, she did not."

"Why?"

"Because she says that she does not remember him, that she never knew him." Madame Giry watched the pallor of Meg's face turn white. "She remembers living at the Opera, and her time living in the dormitories, but she claims she knows nothing about the former Opera Ghost."

"What do you mean 'she claims'?" Meg said, almost in a whisper.

Madame Giry sighed. "I do not know if she _really _cannot remember, or if this is a way to hide her feelings once more. It could be a way to erase her past, a way to finally win control over the life that has for so long been her downfall."

"But it seems to me that this way everybody has lost. Christine wouldn't pretend! She has lost the most of all." Madame Giry smiled; the world was so black and white to Meg, she was still so innocent.

"What I mean is, this way; she has finally been able to rid herself of her guilt. She has set Raoul free; she knew that he would never marry another. Not unless he thought she really didn't care for him. She always knew that she could never love him in the way he deserved; the way someone else could. And so she has let him have the life he could never have had with her. Perhaps, this time, she thought it was her turn to save him!"

"Perhaps," Said Meg, still sounding unconvinced. "But that does not explain why she does not remember the Pha- I mean, why she does not remember Erik."

"Does it not?" said Madame Giry with a small, knowing smile. "This way, she can convince herself, and the world around her, that she does not love Erik. Her dark flaw will be eternally hidden, and the world will not be able to judge her for feelings she cannot help. If she cannot remember it, then it will never again be spoken of. She has finally escaped the darkness. And she never had to make the choice of which one to leave behind forever, she has said goodbye to them both."

"No, surely not, I don't think Christine could do that, she loved Raoul, how could she watch him marry someone else? And even if she could, why would she pretend not to remember Erik, to loose them both! It's so sad…"

"I do not know, my child, I doubt if I will ever know the whole truth. All I have is my own opinion. You will have to come to your own conclusion. But one thing is certain. Christine has not mentioned Erik for nearly two years, not since that night on the ice, when she had been so desperate to return to him."

oOo


	6. L'Ange Gardien

_The human heart has hidden treasures,  
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­  
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,  
Whose charms were broken if revealed. _

- Charlotte Bronte – Evening Solace.

oOo

_**L'Ange Gardien**_

oOo

The heaven's had opened, shards of thick rain lashed down into the sea. Plunging blindly into the confines of the deep mass of blue, they covered the surface in a million ripples, all making their way outwards. They would crash into other currents, and sink down into the deep, absorbing catacombs. They became part of something bigger, something immortal. The waves rose up as if to try and fight the rain, they crashed in a reckless frenzy, pelting the sides of a passing ship. They wanted desperately to break its structure with their watery fists.

"Land! I can see land!" shouted a scruffy man hanging from the mast; he had one arm clamped around the large pole, the other tried to shield his eyes from the onslaught of rain. His unruly hair was whirling around in the windy sea air. His vision was impaired, but he held onto the pole with determination. His comrade heard his calls and ran to the edge of the deck.

"That's England alright…ahh it's good to see home again!" Said Jack, first mate on the ship, he inhaled the air deeply into his lungs; the cold air surged through his body. He caught the rain in his mouth, wanting to taste home, and then he spat the mingled liquid back out onto the deck. The faint shore line was only just detectable through the thick rain and crashing waves, but it was there, after months of being at sea, the end was finally in sight. The ship smashed into each rising wave, flattening the hostile tide, causing the crew to jolt around the deck as they all searched the horizon for the first signs of home.

"Start to bring her into dock!" Shouted Lenard, climbing down from the mast, he wiped his wet, coarse hair from his face. "We have valuable cargo to deliver to the men of London!" some of the other men on the deck began to cheer, "One day we'll be known as the men who brought the world's most valuable commodity to British shores! And tonight, we gorge ourselves on good old British ale, and the charms of the women of London! Ha-ha!" Lenard threw his arms into the air and began to laugh hysterically; the men cheered again and began to prepare the ship for docking. Each of them knew the regimented procedure like an innate instinct.

"I'll tell our illustrious passenger that we can see land," said Jack, approaching Captain Lenard, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

Lenard gave him a level stare, the light in his eyes pricking. "No, allow me to share this good news with him. You've been dealing with our masked friend for most of the journey. I think its time the creature and I got to know each other a little better!"

Jack swallowed a lump from his throat. "Approach him with caution, sir. He will not take kindly to -"

"Caution? Ha! Tell me, Jack, who is captain of this vessel?"

"You are, sir, but -"

"That's right, me, Lenard Drake, _Captain _Lenard Drake. And I won't be bowing down in fear to no one! Mask or not!"

"Very well, sir." Said Jack, he wiped the rain from his face with his sleeve. "He will be in his quarters." Lenard smiled; there was a sly twinkle in his grey eyes. He turned his back to Jack and strode below deck without a glance back. The wind shivered down the side of the ship as he walked away, and seemed to whistle a distant warning. Jack shook his head, and got back to work.

Lenard had been annoyed since leaving India; the treatment of this masked man by the other men made his skin crawl. They were leeches, the lot of them! The sight of a mask and they were all running scared. But Lenard had seen many strange things in his time out on the seas. It took a lot to shock him. Word had got out, about Rajan's former spy overseeing the shipment, and the men had been completely on their guard. The cloaked creature rarely left his quarters, and Lenard had only seen fleeting glimpses a floating black shape. Rajan had made sure his friend received the best quarters on the ship - those usually allocated to the captain.

He entered the quarters without introduction, he felt sickened as he walked through the doors. The air felt very different in this chamber, stuffy and clogged. It was like walking down, into warm and hollow mouth, humid air was everywhere. He could feel his senses diminish slightly, they retreated into some hidden repository in his soul. But he kept his head firm, and as clear as the raging ocean outside. He looked about the room. All of the furnishings were red, and it seemed very dark. Rajan had never showed preferential treatment before, but this masked imposter was being treated like a superior deity. Lenard was appalled, he had not yet spoken to their passenger, but his anger was already seething.

The masked man was reclining back on some cushions on the floor, his back resting against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He held a violin in his hands, and was plucking away at the strings absently. The sound caused Lenard's skin to ripple up into gooseflesh, the harmony was strange, somehow alien. And he wanted to close his eyes, feeling the notes creep into his mind. The notes were somehow hollow, bereft of emotion, how was it possible for such a sound to exist? It was like music for a world that was no more, drained of life and hope.

He looked at the figure in front of him, and realised that he was being scrutinised by a pair of glowing eyes. The full black mask that he had been wearing when they left India was gone, and in its place was a pure white one, covering only half of the man's visage. Strangely, having one side of his face exposed did not make this man seem less hostile; the effect was quite the opposite.

"May I help you?" said the black clad creature.

"I'm Captain Lenard," announced Lenard proudly, he waited for a moment for the creature to display some form of respect, even civility. But the masked man simply looked at him.

"And?" Erik said, turning his attention back to the violin. Lenard was taken aback by the man's utter arrogance. But he kept his face strong, and maintained the authority with which he had entered the room.

"_And,_ we have seen land, we should be docked in a few hours."

"Marvellous. Was there anything else?"

"Yes, actually, I'm under orders to deliver you Henry Cranmer. So when we dock you'll be following me, Mr. Cranmer will not like to be kept waiting…so we will need to leave the ship promptly."

"Do I look like a crate of opium?" Erik said, plucking hard on one of the violin strings, the low sound echoed around the room. Lenard felt the base of his spine tingle.

"No." he said gruffly.

"Then I will not require your delivery services. I intend to leave this ship in my own time, and I will make my own way to the mainland. Now if you would be so kind as to leave me, I need to prepare myself for travel."

"I don't think you understand, _sir_." Hissed Lenard "Henry is very eager to meet you, and he is a very important man. He will have a company of ten men at his side, in case of any, y'know, accidents…"

Erik met his eyes angrily, he kept his anger knotted into a ball, it tightened in his stomach. It would be no good to loose his temper now, not on this ship, not to so unworthy a specimen. No, he could wait, he would play along with their little game. Let them believe they have a victory over the masked creature! Let them think they've won. There would be time later, of course, there was always time. Patience was a virtue…

"Very well," he said curtly. "I will meet with this Henry Cranmer, now, leave me." Lenard nodded and turned to leave, and then he stopped. He had heard about the games Rajan had played with this… _thing_, he knew all about the ways he had been tested. An idea crept into his mind. He turned around with a dastardly smile.

"Oh, and one more thing…I'm acquainted with some of the very _accommodating _women of London," he saw the masked man turn rigid, "It's been a long voyage, if you have any needs to satisfy, be sure to let me know. I will be happy to introduce you. You will have nothing to fear with these women. They will not see your face, only your money!" He smiled his sordid smile, showing off his rotting, yellow teeth proudly.

Erik looked at Lenard's hands, amongst the filth covering his skin he could see a wedding band, his anger increased, but he swallowed it down. Utterly repulsed by what stood before him. A woman, somewhere, had promised to honour this man for the rest of her days, _forsaking all others_. He could see that such a promise meant nothing to a man like Lenard. This man had been given the gift of a lifelong companion, and chose to mock the sanctity of such a blessing. And he, who would give his soul to be loved, must live in this world alone. He remembered _her_, his angel in her white dress, and the gold band upon her finger, those soft lips touching his…

But did not allow himself to follow that path, it was too dangerous.

"My thanks," He said through gritted teeth. "But I have no need for such an offer. Now if you would be so kind as to leave me."

Lenard nodded; a full smirk was across his lips. He left the room, chuckling to himself, knowing the masked man would hate to be laughed at. Erik swallowed hard, and stared after him. He turned around, looking down at the violin; he felt an insatiable need to play, and his fingers itched to touch the strings, his soul called out to be cleansed by music…by thoughts of Christine. And he bent down to pick the instrument up. But as he leaned over he heard a voice behind him.

"NOW!" shouted Lenard, Erik felt a sharp blow to his head, then a sack over his face. He struggled and lashed out, but he could feel at least six men holding him down, forcing his hands into shackles. He writhed and moaned, like a wild, feral beast. But they managed to force the locks shut. He heard the click. He was trapped. He could hear laughing, and felt a red haze take over his mind. The pain in his head was growing. Then all he could see was blackness.

oOo

Christine listened to the sound her shoes made upon the pavement; she focused her mind to the relentless clicking of her feet upon the path. She watched as each foot poked out from beneath her skirts, one, then the other, then the other one again, over and over. She marvelled in the way the material fluttered up and then fell back down, like soft waves upon the rocks, or the sprinkle of autumn leaves. This allowed her to keep her head down, she did not look at the faces around her, just her feet. Listening to her own gait pushed the voices from her mind, the voices that tainted her with their evil gossip...

_You know the one; she was mixed up in that scandal a few years back. What's her name again? Catherine, no, Christine that's her…Christine Daae, the Vicomte's lover, the mistress, the diva, the whore…_

"Stop it!" she said to herself, squeezing her eyes shut, she covered her ears with her hands. Her mind was her own worst enemy, she longed for it to be silent.

A man stopped, with a concerned look upon his face.

"Are you all right, mademoiselle?" he inquired kindly. He touched her arm lightly, and her eyes flew open. She jumped away from his touch as though she had been burned. Then she studied him for a moment, he was a gentleman in his late fifties, with kind blue eyes, and a moustache. He was dressed like any other city gentleman, with a top hat and a walking stick. He wore a pair of small glasses, with the lenses removed. Christine smiled at this small quirk of eccentricity.

"Oh, yes, monsieur. Thank you." She bit her lip. "I'm sorry if I alarmed you, I'm just having a terrible day."

"Ah, I know the feeling, mademoiselle. But remember, each evil day has the potential for good. That is the beauty of life, and even if it doesn't, there is always tomorrow!" he said theatrically, waving his hand in the air. Something in his manner made her laugh.

"Thank you, I shall remember that!"

"Now, I think I know just the thing to make your afternoon better, do you see that _pâtisserie_ over there?" Christine followed his hand with her eyes.

"Yes."

"I want you to go and buy that cake in the window, yes that one, with the pink icing…"

"But, monsieur, I do not have the money to -" He put his gloved hand behind her ear, and pulled out a shining coin. Like her father had often done when she was young, she smiled as he placed the coin in her palm.

"Monsieur, I thank you, but I cannot accept this!" she held out her small hand to him.

"Of course you can, I will not hear of you giving it back!" She looked at him warily for a few moments, her hand still held out to him.

"Please, mademoiselle, I insist! Think of me as a guardian angel, _of sorts_." Her eyes clouded over slightly at this statement, but she shook the thoughts away, and began to smile again.

"Very well, thank you, sir! You are very kind."

He smiled at her, and tipped his hat.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle. May luck shine upon you from this day forward." Then he went, whistling and twirling his cane around as he walked. Christine watched him for a moment, smiling in wonder, and then she made her way to the pâtisserie.

She looked in the window, it was a beautiful cake, with sponge, a layer of crème and then more sponge and pink icing. With a beautiful marzipan rose on the top, it was strange; he had given her exactly the right amount of money. She was tempted, but surely it would be wrong, to eat something so beautiful all to herself. She went inside.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" said they lady behind the counter. "What'll it be? That lovely cake I saw you admiring in the window, perhaps?"

"I, I'm not sure." Christine said, looking at all of the other cakes behind the counter. But then her eye travelled to the pink cake again, it really was the most beautiful one in the shop.

"That was a commission, but the gentleman didn't come to collect it. Shame, really, it was a one off, I won't be making one like that again in a hurry. Shall I box it up for you?"

"No, no I'll just take six of these instead." Christine said, pointing to the pain au chocolat.

"Very good, miss." Said the assistant, she placed half a dozen into a paper bag, and passed it to Christine.

"Merci," said Christine and handed her coin over the counter. The assistant smiled and turned to the till.

Christine had gone by the time the assistant turned to give her the change.

She ran much of the way home, her feet felt light, and she pretended she was running amongst the clouds. She was high above, untamed and free, with nothing but space around her. She turned; heading down the street witch contained their small house. She felt exited; she had not seen Meg for so long. She came upon the house and ran up the stairs, pushing open the front door eagerly.

"Hello?" she called as she stepped inside.

"_In here, my dear!" _said a voice through the sitting room door. Christine opened the door, but had no time to process what was happening. Meg saw her at once and flew into her friends arms. They were both giggling happily.

"Oh, Christine, I have missed you so much!"

"Me too, Meg! Me too! More than you will ever know!" They let go of each other and Christine handed her bag to Madame Giry.

"Ah, what is a lovely idea, Christine! We can have these after supper." Exclaimed Madame Giry, Meg peeked inside the bag.

"Pain au chocolat my favourite! Oh, Christine, you remembered!" Meg said. But then she heard herself, and she wanted to bite off her clumsy tongue. "Err - I mean -"

"Of course I remembered, Meg." Said Christine, she gave her friend a quizzical look. Meg realised she needed to forget everything her mother had told her. For Christine's sake, she needed to pretend that she knew nothing.

"I know," giggled Meg "I'm impressed, that's all! I've been away for so long."

"Yes I know, too long!" smiled Christine.

Madame Giry walked into the kitchen and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. She could hear the girls giggling in the next room; they both seemed full of life and had so much to say.

For the first time in years, these were tears of joy.

oOo

"Oh, Meg I can't believe you're engaged." said Christine as she brushed her friend's hair. Meg was sat down at the vanity in front of her, smiling up at her friend.

"Why can't you believe it? Is _so_ impossible that somebody would want to marry me?" Meg joked.

"No, of course not, you know what I meant." Said Christine swatting her playfully, "I can't believe there is a man worthy of you,"

"Do you remember Arthur Weiss?" Giggled Meg.

"Yes, of course! He declared his love for you in front of the entire rehearsal room. I'll never forget the look on your face! Poor Arthur…"

"Oh I was mortified, he had that strange twitch, and his breath was awful!"

"Meg, that's cruel!"

"Well he did! I was so glad when mamman dismissed him at the end of the season."

"So, Peter is nothing like Arthur Weiss, then?" Christine said, pulling Megs hair back into a plait.

"No, nothing at all!" sighed Meg. "I can't wait for you to meet him, Christine."

"I will, at dinner tomorrow." Meg's face turned to a frown, she looked nervous.

"What if his father disapproves of me?" she looked up at Christine helplessly.

"How could he? Meg, you are beautiful, kind and lovely…his son is lucky to have you!" Meg smiled at her. This wasn't the Christine she had prepared herself for. This was the Christine she had only ever seen a few times, the one that had been free and loved to laugh. There was no melancholy in her manner, not at the moment. She had been ready for a wide eyed ghost, like the one her mother had described to her. This was not the Christine she remembered, not the one she had left behind two years ago.

"Are you alright, Christine?" she asked, because she _had _to ask. She needed to know what was going on in Christine's head.

"Of course, I'm fine. Why do you ask?" Christine said; the smile slipped from her face.

"It's just, when I left, you and le Vicomte were happy…well, and now you're not, so I was just wondering if you were alright." Christine was silent for a few moments. She put the brush down on the vanity and sat on Meg's bed. Her eyes were at the floor.

"Yes, we were happy, I suppose. But I did some very stupid things, Meg, I made some mistakes. Raoul and I would not have been happy. Not then, anyway. I was very cruel to him."

Meg didn't know what to say, she felt slightly cruel herself, asking Christine these things when she already knew the truth. But she needed to know more.

"Have you heard from him since?" she asked.

"Yes, he called by on his wedding day." Christine's eyes clouded over, and she began to twist her fingers around in her lap. It looked painful, and Meg felt herself wince. "And he wrote to me, to tell me he was leaving for America."

"America? Oh, Christine," Said Meg, she moved to sit beside Christine on the bed and put her arm around her.

"No, I'm fine, honestly. I am very happy for him." Christine moved away slightly and gave Meg a wry smile. "His wife is going to have a baby, he is thrilled. Raoul always wanted children. I'm glad he finally has all that he deserves. Nobody deserves happiness more than Raoul." She said; she was staring at the floor again.

"You deserve to be happy too, Christine."

Christine looked at her friend; her eyes seemed to be bright again.

"I am, Meg. I feel very different now" she looked down and smiled, smoothing the rug with her toes. "It's time to move on." Meg tried to hide her sceptical look. There was so much more she wanted to ask, so much she needed to know. But Christine did seem to be happier, perhaps she really had moved on. And if she was content let the past lie, then Meg would have to also.

But she couldn't hide from a new revelation that quivered in her gut, what if Christine really had forgotten Erik? If this wasn't an act of self sacrifice, and she really couldn't remember, could they let her live her life in blind ignorance? Could she be allowed to forget a man she had once called her angel? Meg suddenly felt a new weight upon her; it was like a heavy hand was pushing down on her head. Pushing so hard that she thought she might sink.

"Look at the time, Meg." Christine said. "We must've been talking for hours!" she put her hand over her mouth and yawned softly. "Goodnight," she said, placing a kiss to Meg's cheek. Then she left the room.

"Goodnight, Christine." Meg sighed; she shut her door and climbed into her small bed. Her head was still spinning.

Christine might not want to remember Erik, the angel of music, the phantom, or whatever he chose to call himself nowadays. If Christine had made a conscious choice to forget him, surely she would never forgive Meg if she dredged it all up again.

Meg rolled over and buried her head in her pillow, willing sleep to come quickly. She willed these dreaded thoughts to leave her mind in peace.

All of these decisions could wait until daylight, she decided, everything would seem much better in the morning.

oOo


	7. Both Sides of the Mirror

_My hand is lonely for your clasping, dear;  
My ear is tired, waiting for your call.  
I want your strength to help, your laugh to cheer;  
Heart, soul and senses need you, one and all._

Henry Alford - You and I.

oOo

_**Both Sides of the Mirror.**_

oOo

Erik slowly turned his mind back to the light, the darkness had been consuming, painful, and black. But now he let his mind turn away from the deadly fog. He followed a shaky shaft of light, it was hazy and fragile, and remained before his eyes, hovering just out of his grasp. He reached out, to try and touch it, but the light exploded, turning into violent sunlight that blazed down upon him, blinding him…

Erik found that the light wasn't too bad, it was warm here, soft. It was filled with her voice, her song, just _her_…all of her. Her hands were on his face, each side, the normal and the scarred. This touch smoothed his tortured heart, and he could feel that goodness in his veins again, the fragile peace that was more frightening than the dark. It was stronger than before, and he was willing now, he could be good, he was capable. He wasn't completely lost… He would condemn the dark, and follow the light…he could be good. He would be good forever, if she would always be here.

But then the hands slipped away from his face, and she took a step backwards. Then she took another, she was slowly slipping from his reach. The shadows began to make shapes on her lovely white skin, smothering her. The darkness held her in a deadly grip, and she was becoming submerged in the blackness. He called to her, but she shook her head, she wanted the darkness. "You put me here," she said "And here I shall stay."

His eyes flew open, and the world was real again, he could smell the damp ground through the sack, a stench of wet soil churned up by the boots of men. He could feel his body being dragged through the mud, he was being pulled along by his arms. The dampness was seeping through his clothing. And the voices, they were familiar, those mocking, hideous voices that had laughed and set him in chains. He tried to find the strength to struggle, but before he could move he felt his body hit the ground. Was this it? The way he was going to die? Face down in the mud with a sack over his face? He could almost laugh; a pitiful end for a pitiful creature.

If he had known he would he have ended it two years ago, back in the bowels of the Opera, with her kiss still freshly on his lips, at least there would have been a vague sense of dignity in a death like that. Suicide was the ultimate sin…but at least it would've been his choice.

There were more voices now. One was calm and one sardonic, then one pleading and one serious. He could hear fragments of the conversation, only odd words.

But the sound of a pistol being loaded was something he most definitely did recognise, this was it then - the end. The Opera Ghost would be just that…dust and air.

A shot was fired.

oOo

"Come on, Christine! We'll be late!" shouted Meg from the Brougham cab, Christine ran out of the front door and down the steps. Being mindful to hold her skirts out of the gutter, it had been raining all day and the pavement shone with reflections of street lamps and the domestic shine of humble homes. It made the world feel like one huge echo, every sound was magnified and seemed to continue underneath the ground. She jumped into the carriage and closed the door, examining the hem of her dress for any signs of mud. She looked up at Meg and smiled.

"You look lovely, Meg! Red suits you,"

"Are you sure?" said Meg, smoothing the dark red fabric with her fingertips. "I don't look like a can-can dancer, do I?"

"No, of course you don't!" Christine laughed.

"Don't be absurd," chided Madame Giry. They said this in quick succession of one another.

They passed the rest of the journey in this way, laughing and taking. Meg noticed the way Christine's eyes danced as she laughed, it was a comfort, because she had never seen Christine like this before. There was no dark shadow haunting the back of her eyes, and her skin, although still pale, had lost its deathly pallor. There was a shine to her, and sitting in this carriage now she looked almost serene. Meg felt her heart make her mind's decision, it would be cruel to remind Christine of the past. It would be a selfish act that would only serve to release the burden from her, and ruin this fragile happiness that Christine had found.

So her mind was made up; she would keep the tragic mysteries of the past to herself. She would swallow them down, and keep them hidden. She would let her friend live a life in the daylight, where ghosts did not exist.

"It would be quicker to take the rue de Richelieu, monsieur!" shouted Madame Giry to the Brougham driver. "Yes, yes then right onto the rue des Petits Champs! Merci," she rolled her eyes and the girls giggled.

"Meg, what does Peter's father do to allow him to own a house in this part of the city?" said Christine, she looked out at the large town houses with wonder. Meg sucked her cheeks in and thought hard for a moment.

"I don't actually know," she began to tap her fingers against the soft leather of the seat; her face held a worried frown. "Oh, yes, I remember now. He has a lot to do with the performing arts in London; he has a lot of investments, that's how I met Peter. But I'm not sure why lives in Paris, they moved here just before Peter was born, but his father wanted Peter to attend Cambridge, so Peter went back to England and worked in London after he graduated."

Madame Giry and Christine nodded, both relived to know something about their host for the evening.

"_Here we are, Madame_!" shouted the driver. They all climbed out of the cab and Christine and Meg waited while Madame Giry made the payment. They looked up at the grand town house. It seemed to stretch up endlessly, and the delicate balconies under each window gave it an effortless grace. There were twisting sculptures around the door and each of the windows, framing the house perfectly in the beautiful baroque style. These ornate houses never failed to amaze Christine, and she followed the curve of each elaborate decoration with her eyes.

"Mon dieu!" gasped Meg, "I knew his father earned a decent living, but I didn't expect this…"

"It certainly is beautiful," agreed Christine.

"Come along, girls. We were not invited here to stand in the street!" chided Madame Giry, pretending not to be fazed by the grandeur of the house. They made their way up the stairs. Meg knocked on the door. They were greeted by the maid, who showed them into the parlour. Moments later Peter came in, his cheeks slightly flushed.

"Ah, how nice it is to see you all!" He smiled. Meg stood and ran to his outstretched arms. "Madame, thank you for honouring us!" he said to Madame Giry.

"Peter, let me introduce you to someone," said Meg, taking his hand "This is my best friend, Christine Daae." Peter took Christine's hand and smiled warmly.

"It is such a pleasure to finally meet you!"

Christine bowed her head slightly "You too, monsieur, I have heard so much about you,"

"Ah, all good I hope?" he said, turning to Meg, who raised an eyebrow.

"Of course!" implored Christine "well, most of it at least!" And the three of them stood laughing, and Christine was sure she even saw a small smile on Madame Giry's lips. She already knew she was going to like Peter immensely. And it was obvious, from their manner with one another, that he and Meg loved each other dearly. She felt very contented to see her friend so happy.

"_Peter!" _called a distant voice from the hallway.

"Ah, that's my father." Said Peter, suddenly turning pale, he walked to the door, and then turned back. "I'm sorry I didn't have the time to explain about him," His voice was hushed now, almost in a whisper. "He can seem a little, what you might call, _eccentric _when you first meet him, but please, just take him as you will…" he cast a worried glance around the women. Christine and Madame Giry shared a confused stare.

"Ah, here you are!" declared the older gentleman entering the parlour. "All the guests have arrived I see, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you all!" he said, giving the room a small bow. Meg tried desperately to keep the laughter at the bottom of her throat. The man was tall, with warm eyes and a moustache. He was wearing formal evening dress with an oversized red and white polka dot bow tie. This was an odd juxtaposition to take in, and Meg was convinced that at any moment he would pull out a flower and squirt them all with water.

"Father, this is Meg," announced Peter proudly. Meg blushed a little bit and stepped forward, the older man took her hand and bowed again.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle." And then with a nod at his son he said, "You were right, Peter, she is beautiful!" Meg felt her cheeks burn, and looked between the two men.

"Meg, this is my father, Edgar Lockhart," Peter said, he cast her a pleading glance. Edgar smiled and carried on talking to Meg.

"You a very talented dancer, from what I hear, Peter tells me that you are the most graceful dancer he has ever seen. Is that so?"

"I think that Peter is over exaggerating my talent, monsieur!"

"Now, now, don't be too modest! I have never known my son to lie before!" he said with a smile.

"Father, this is Meg's mother, Annette Giry…" said Peter, desperately trying to get the formalities over with.

"Bonjour, monsieur." Annette said politely.

"How do you do, Madame!"

"…And this is Meg's friend, Christine Daae." Christine stepped forward, and felt like her eyes had fallen from her head. It was the man from the street, the kind stranger who had given her the money for the cake. _This_ was Peter's father? She didn't know if he would remember her, or if she should show some hint of recognition towards him. But all of a sudden she felt a panic take her, one she could not explain. She didn't want Meg and Madame Giry to know about her outburst in the street, they didn't need to know. She prayed that he did not remember. He was looking at her with a kind smile, an expression that did not seem to betray any hint of recollection. So she smiled and said:

"Bonjour, it is very lovely to meet you, monsieur."

"And you, mademoiselle, and you." He said, but he said nothing more. Instead he reached into his pocket and put a monocle into his eye. With the lens removed. Then he proceeded to exchange pleasantries with Madame Giry. Christine smiled, pleased that he did not seem to remember her.

The maid called that dinner was ready, and the small party made their way through to the dining room.

oOo

Lenard and his comrades pulled the limp body from the ship. The masked creature was heavy, and it took four of them to drag him up onto the mainland. Getting him into the shackles had been much easier than Lenard had first thought, and the blow to the head would be sufficient keep him unconscious until they reached Mr. Cranmer.

Henry Cranmer; that name held so much fear for Lenard. Fear was not usually an emotion he allowed himself to feel, he considered immune to such weaknesses. But Henry Cranmer was different, a different class of criminal. And his notoriety was widespread amongst the Limehouse district of London. Lenard had heard the stories, the ones that made his soul want to vomit. He hoped that delivering this monstrous package would win him some points with the crime lord.

They approached a small party of men standing amongst a scattering of trees. The storm that had carried them to England had passed, and now the air was light and eerily calm, charged with the afterglow of the storm. There was no wind to disguise their approaching footsteps, their feet slapped and splattered against the uneven and muddy ground. And they stumbled up to the waiting party, dragging their unconscious cargo by the arms.

Henry Crammer came to stand at the front of his party, he was dressed in a long black overcoat, with his red cravat poking over the top, like a tongue hanging from a dead mouth. He was a man of about sixty, with deeply weathered skin and faded blue eyes. He had the look of a man who had once been handsome. But the devastating partnership of time and crime had long ago claimed their prize.

"What is that?" he asked sharply. His small eyes scanned the lifeless body that had been thrown near his feet.

"A special delivery from Rajan, sealed and delivered!" said Lenard, stepping forward, wearing his trademark grin. Henry down looked at the body.

"This," he pointed "is Erik?"

"It is indeed, sir." Lenard said proudly.

"Is he…"

"Dead? No sir. Just unconscious."

"I see, and did Rajan tell you to bring him to me in this, _state_?"

"Well no, sir…but."

"I have been told meet you here, to oversee the delivery of the cargo and to meet a great friend of Rajan's. A very important friend, from what I hear, who is to be a guest in my house. A man that now lies before me in the mud, beaten and shackled. Tell me, Lenard, how would Ragan deal with such disobedience?"

"I don't know, Mr. Cranmer," Said Lenard; he could feel his hands begin to shake.

"Very well," Said Henry "Since you do not know, allow me to demonstrate. Watch carefully now…"

He pulled a pistol from his pocket and began to load it, Lenard's eyes widened in horror. The rest of the crew gathered together, and drew back, leaving Lenard to stand alone.

"Kneel down." Henry instructed.

Lenard sank to his knees, pleading, tears came from the corners of his eyes.

The pistol was loaded.

Erik tensed his body, preparing for the violent shock of pain that was about to come. Where would they shoot him? In the back, neck, head…_the heart? _He morbidly hoped it would be the latter; at least that part of him had been dead for a long time. Why was he wasting his final thoughts on this? The pain would come soon enough, but in these last seconds of life he was still free, it was not his mind they had put in shackles. He would think of her. That was all he could do now, he had no hope of seeing her again. So he would consume himself in thoughts of her, of her voice, and her song. That lovely face…those eyes… at least in his mind she could never turn away…

A shot was fired.

Erik heard the body fall, but there was no pain. Christine was still in his mind, she had not gone. She was still here, and he was not dead. He felt himself being pulled again, but this time up onto his knees. Then the sack was yanked from his head. And daylight hit him like a stone fist, sending his senses into disarray. His wild eyes adjusted to the harsh rays of sun, and he struggled violently, the two men that were holding him stood back. Lenard's body lay to the side of him, Erik studied the corpse for a few moments; there was a single bullet wound to his head. He felt no sympathy for the dead man, only a dark envy that someone else had killed him before he himself had the chance.

A pair of brightly polished boots came to stand before him, squelching into the deep mud. Their pristine colour was ruined by flecks of the wet dirt, and they sank slightly into the sodden earth. Erik let his eyes travel up the figure, and met the dull blue eyes with a penetrating scowl. He noticed the man quiver for the briefest moment, but then his mouth gave a sly half smile.

"My apologies for your crude arrival onto English soil, my friend. You have my word that Rajan will hear all about this treachery. I am Henry Cranmer."

"I would shake your hand, monsieur" sneered Erik "but I am somewhat tied up, as you no doubt see!"

"Ah, yes," said Henry, he motioned to one of the sailors to undo the restraints on Erik's wrists. But as the man bent to unlock them, Henry raised his hand, the man stopped and stood back.

"How do I know that you're not going to attack me as soon as those cuffs are off?"

Erik gave an ironic huff of laughter "Don't you think _that _is reason enough?" he said, glancing in the direction of Lenard's body. Henry's small lips turned up into a smile. And he nodded for the sailor to continue.

The shackles fell to the ground, and Erik rose to his feet. Feeling slightly shaky at first, but he soon regained his composure. He looked down at his spoiled, dirty clothing with disgust.

"Welcome to England, Erik!" said Henry, "Rajan has told me a lot about you!"

"And here I was hoping to make a good first impression," Erik said.

"Ha! You there!" Henry shouted to one of the crew, "Bring all of Erik's belongings up from the ship." The man nodded and scurried away. "I look forward to getting to know you, my friend. Shall we?" he motioned toward a waiting carriage. Erik nodded wearily and followed Henry.

oOo

The dinner passed happily. Christine was seated next to Peter and opposite Meg. She smiled at the way they would steal glances at each other, and it was clear to her that neither of them were paying particular attention to Edgar's whimsical tales of life as an amateur actor. She found him to be rather interesting, and she enjoyed the theatricality of his voice. And Madame Giry would smile and laugh, but Christine was unsure whether this was out of genuine enjoyment or polite courtesy.

As the maid brought through tea and sweets, the conversation turned to politics, Christine felt her mind switch off.

"Of course, I was lucky enough not to be pulled into that war, but then I was probably too old! But it a waste of time from the start if you ask me, I'm so glad that Peter was in England at the time,"

"Oui," agreed Madame Giry "so many young lives were wasted."

They carried on in this way for the next half an hour, and Peter and Meg were reminiscing about the time they had spent in England, and even though she listened intently at first, Christine found her mind begin to wonder. It was lovely to see Meg so happy; but something about it also scared her. Meg was growing up and moving on. And she continued to linger; like a black statue, frozen in her past, unable to look back - but too frightened to move forward.

"And what are you working on now, monsieur?" asked Madame Giry. Christine looked up and noticed Edgar smiling.

"Ah, it is funny you should ask that, madame." he said.

"Father -" said Peter, stopping his conversation with Meg. There was hot panic in his cheeks. But Edgar simply waved an annoyed hand at his son and carried on speaking.

"…it is a project that is very close to my heart, madame. And something that will be of great interest to you also!"

Madame Giry put down her teacup, intrigued. "Do continue."

Edgar stood up and lifted his cup; his bewildered guests were all staring up at him. Peter put his head in his hands.

"I am going to rebuild the Paris Opera!"

Meg's eyes shot to Christine, who was staring into her teacup. The colour had gone from her face.

Christine could feel all of their eyes upon her. She became aware of every movement her face was making; she could not crumble now, not in front of Peter and his father. She would not embarrass Meg. She took a deep breath, and then raised her eyes to the rest of the room and said:

"That is brilliant news, monsieur! Paris hasn't been the same without it!" her declaration took the charge from the air, and Madame Giry and Meg also congratulated him on his news.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, all of the guests were trying to digest Edgar's shocking admission. It was good news for Paris, and for all of the refugees of the Opera, who now sought employment elsewhere. But Madame Giry knew it was grave news for Christine's fragile state of mind. But luckily Edgar did not mention the tragedy which had forced the Opera to close. And if Christine was having trouble with the news, she certainly hid it well. She listened to the news with interest, with the carefree look of someone who had never stepped foot inside the grand building.

Before long the evening was at an end, and Peter and Edgar bid there guest's farewell. But just as Christine was about to descend the steps, Edgar touched her on the arm.

"I knew you wouldn't buy the cake," He said with raised eyebrows. Christine turned to face him, her eyes darted across his face in confusion. Had he known who she was all evening? "Tell me, what did you spend the money on?"

"I, I brought something to share with Meg and Madame Giry." He smiled at this, and began to nod softly.

"Something to share." He echoed "Yes, I thought as much! You are a very good person, Christine. Good evening, it was a pleasure to meet you again!" he smiled at her warmly, and she smiled back.

"And you, monsieur. Good night." She ran down the steps to where Madame Giry and Meg were waiting.

oOo

The three women sat in silent contentment during the ride home. The carriage trotted on merrily, and Christine looked out onto the damp streets. She loved the way Paris would change at night time. The café's that had been serving tea and cakes all day turned into petite bourgeois restaurants, where the bohemians would drink merrily. They would laugh, and dance and sing about their revolution. Beautiful, immaculate ladies were being escorted to the theatres and restaurants on the arms of their tall, respectable gentlemen. And there was music, everywhere music, from inside the café's and the buskers in the street. It seemed like everyone in Paris was singing to their own tune, there was a melody in everything. For those who had the ears to hear it.

The carriage pulled to a standstill at a busy crossing. Christine could hear Madame Giry and Meg talking, but she was too enthralled with the outside world to pay attention. The rain had stopped, and a man outside was playing a violin, the tune was soft, and she let her eyes close. It was familiar, somehow, and she seemed to know every part, it was as personal to her as the sound of her own heart, an instinct she had been ignoring. The notes could have been written on her skin. It was a sound of hunger, sadness and diminished hope. A fragrant longing that could not survive but would not subside, and before she could stop it there were tears in her eyes.

She needed to stop him playing this, whoever he was, he needed to stop. This should not be played. She didn't know why, but somehow she knew that he needed to stop. She did not want to hear this, it was wrong; her heart was dripping away into the gutter, seeping back into that dark place. All she had to do was keep listening, let the music take her again; if she kept listening it would all come back, she could be there again. She felt like her head was about to smash against the pavement.

Madame Giry and Meg gasped as she jumped up from her seat and descended the carriage steps. The driver shouted something to her but she ignored him, all she knew was that she needed to stop the music. She ran toward the busker, he was a small, tatty looking man with a long black beard. His sheets of music lay on the pavement; she dropped to the floor, and picked up the top sheets, holding them in her shaking hands. The busker had stopped playing and was looking at her as though she were mad.

"Are you all right, mam'selle?"

"Where, where did you find this?" she said in a hollow voice, staring at the music score with fear. Madame Giry had left the carriage and was trying to get Christine back inside. But the young girl was just staring at the music; her eyes were dancing over the score with an innate apprehension.

"I think she's mad!" The busker sneered.

"I apologise, monsieur," Said Madame Giry, trying to sound calm. "But, could you please tell me where you found this music?" he glared at her for a few more moments, and then he rolled his eyes.

"There was a man, a few months ago, a haggler of some sort. Selling memorabilia from the burnt down Opera. I brought some clothes and he chucked that in for free. Listen, I don't want any trouble, she can have it if it means that much to her!"

"Merci, my apologies again, monsieur!" said Madame Giry, throwing some coins on the ground. She put her arm around Christine and helped the young girl to her feet.

When they were back in the carriage the driver pulled away, muttering something to himself. In the safety of the dark carriage, they all sat in silence. Meg could feel her heart pounding, and Madame Giry held onto the seat with shaking hands. Christine was very still, the sheets of music had gone limp in her hands, and she stared down at them with a resigned sadness. Stripes of light came in occasionally from the lamps outside, and the pages would light up, and then fade again. When the light was upon them the taunting title stared up, three written words that raped the soul.

**Don Juan Triumphant **

oOo


	8. Dance of the Moirae: Part I

_False friends are worse than bitter enemies._

- Scottish Proverb

oOo

_**Dance of the Moirae. Part I**_

oOo

Madame Giry turned the corner onto the boulevard, her step was brisk and she darted through the crowds swiftly**. **She could hear betrayal in her step. It was taunting, and it echoed, like a whisper in a darkened room, loud, hot and anonymous. She stopped at the end of the street; _Café de Flore_ sat on the corner, with the domestic lure of sweet smelling pastries and tea. The place that she was now to betray the confidence of someone she loved. She took a breath and made her way to the door.

The delicious fumes and soft air caressed her face as she entered the café; the atmosphere was in stark opposition to the cold outside, inside was warm and welcoming, and forced a blush to creep into her cheeks and nose. She now wore her nervous apprehension on her face; for all to see. There was a hum of polite chatter, like a chorus of morning birds. It was not enough to be considered loud, but enough shroud the sounds of her mysterious liaison.

Her sharp eyes scanned the room; looking. Each face was a stranger. Perhaps it was him, an old gentleman with mutton chops, arranging tobacco into a pipe? No, surely not, he seemed too old; the letters had been penned by a young man. She was sure of that, but she did not know why... Perhaps it was him, a younger man, with sharp eyes and ebony hair? But he did not have the look she had been expecting, his manner seemed too sharp, almost brooding. What was she expecting, someone like the Vicomte? Maybe, well, yes actually. That is just what she had been expecting, a fresh faced saviour, with the power to save them all from darkness…

A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped, and whirled around.

"Madame Giry?" asked a man of about thirty, with a groomed appearance and bright eyes. Yes, she sighed to herself, this was what she had expected. She was almost relived.

"Oui, Monsieur la Claire, I presume?" She said, a little more abruptly she had intended.

"I am," he said with a nod, smiling stiffly. "I have a table for us, this way," She followed him to a table in the corner. He pulled out a chair for her:

"Merci," she said. He sat down opposite, facing the door. And she realised he must have been watching her as she came in.

Here they were, two absolute strangers sitting in the corner table of a busy Parisian café; talking in hushed tones. This wasn't quite the inconspicuous meeting she had hoped for.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," said Mathieu, "I didn't think you would. Not after your response to my first letter."

"Yes, well, things have changed since then, monsieur. Our situation is much more complicated."

He strained his gaze, eager for her to elaborate. She frowned, and then continued.

"But if I may be honest, monsieur; I do not see how you will be able to help Christine. She saw a doctor, many times after her fall. He assured me then that she was well. Her injuries were not as bad as it was first thought."

Mathieu smiled and rubbed his chin.

"I am not _that _kind of doctor, Madame." He saw the lines in her face deepen as she tried to assimilate this, anxiety forming in her pores.

"I do not understand, monsieur,"

"I am a doctor of the mind, Madame."

This silenced her, and they sat in their own silent cocoon, the chatter of the room seemed much louder than it had done before.

She raised a sceptical brow, just as the maid set down the pot of tea Mathieu had ordered. She had heard of these men, many called them charlatans, philosophers from Germany who considered the mind and soul to be intertwined. She had heard people call them meddlers; men who considered the psyche to be a new science, something new to explore and conquer. Although they lived in an era of new thinking, many remained unconvinced by these new ideals. She had never formed an opinion on such matters, thinking it would never concern her. How wrong she had been.

But she had made a promise to herself to keep an open mind. And who was she to judge others? She, who had been the box keeper for a ghost for so many years of her life.

"Go on." She said. Mathieu smiled, and after sipping his tea, began to speak.

"Well, as you may well know, madame. The formation of the Third Republic has made it possible for many things to change. It has been possible for us to shake the shackles of conservatism that held us for so long, I know you may think me some kind of witchdoctor," she looked taken aback by his frankness, the colour rose in his cheeks a little, but he continued.

"But this is a science, madame, a new and practical way of understanding human beings. We to able explore methods and practices that have been too long frowned upon. The mind is a fragile organ, like any other part of the body. It needs to be treated properly; it heals in its own way. We are able to learn so much about ourselves, the science of the mind is fascinating. And, I believe this could be the key to helping Miss Daae. "

Her taught expression told him nothing, and he thought he had lost. She seemed to be a very intelligent woman, but her rigidness and firm features belonged in another realm. One of sensibility and conservatism, she would not take a gamble with the mind of her adopted daughter, he was sure of this. She was a creature of the past. He could feel his hope diminish. All he needed was one meeting with mademoiselle Daae, he knew that would be enough, and then they would all see that all he wanted to do was help.

"I understand your philosophies, monsieur. And I am sure they are most interesting, but how exactly do you intend to extend these ideas to help Christine?" her tone was still stern. But he could see that she was willing to listen.

"I will talk to her," he said simply.

Madame Giry's eyebrows jutted together, and although she tried to hide it, he could see insult in her eyes.

"Talk to her?" she echoed "What do you think I have been doing for two years, monsieur? Ignoring her?"

He knew his hasty words had caused offence.

"No, madame I did not mean to suggest – let me explain. What I mean is, that we have often found it useful, in cases such as these, to talk to the patient, not that mademoiselle Daae _is_ a patient. But we have found that to simply speak to them, of non related events, or even everyday things, it can do wondrous things, madame."

Her face seemed to soften a little, but she was still unconvinced. Mathieu could see her reason fighting with her sense of belief. And he knew that what he said sounded strange, he needed to elaborate.

"I have been taught to find meaning in what the patient says; to give them a normal subject to talk about, and let them describe it to me. Let me give you an example, if I may?"

Madame Giry gave a slight nod.

"If I were to ask you to describe a meadow, I would be able to discern so much from your character by the way you were to describe that meadow. Hopefully, the way you describe it, and the words you use, will start a chain reaction, and make you think of other things."

He had hoped for her to give an answer at this point, to describe the meadow to him herself. But he could tell that she was not a woman to be analysed. So he continued.

"Well, if you were to describe the meadow on a sunny day, with lambs playing, and birds singing. And all around fertility and growth, I could take from this that you were a happy person, content with your current place in life. If, however, the meadow was, in your mind, a dark, overgrown environment, with shadowed trees, and a place bereft of life and existence. I would know that there were things on your mind, things that you were hiding. Thinking about something else can often bring repressed memories to the surface."

Madame Giry sighed, and began to rub her forehead wearily. She already knew how Christine would describe that meadow. There would be no life, only ghosts.

"And what happens then?" she asked "once you know what is in her mind, how do you solve it? Is there really a cure for such unhappiness?" she looked at him again. And he saw that there was now hope in her eyes, a fragile hope, that could disappear with one blink.

"Then," Mathieu began, speaking softly, "the patient must confront what is in their mind, talking about the darkness should allow them to remember. They must confront the ghost, and then release it. It is my job to get them to the point of confrontation, the real battle lies with the patient themselves. But it can be done, I have seen it."

"And what if the patient does not want to release the ghost?" asked Madame Giry solemnly. Mathieu felt his throat dry slightly, and he took a sip of tea.

"Then, that is another battle all together," he said honestly. "But if we can try to help mademoiselle Daae to remember, she can deal with the past. The longer the shadows linger, the darker they become."

"She has been in shadow for most of her life," said madame Giry, laughing slightly, because if she didn't laugh, she would cry. Mathieu was suddenly at a loss for words.

Her mind was a whirlwind, she did not know if this man could help, or if he was to be trusted. It was a gamble, one she was not happy to take. But this week had been unbearable. Since the night of the dinner, Christine had become a white wraith; the cheerful young girl who had greeted Meg back from London was gone. And her place was a hollow being, neither happy nor sad, not dead, but not quite living. She did not cry, she was still strong, facing the world with a relentless determination. But she was changed. Another door had closed.

The music score had been put away; in the same locked drawer where she kept the article from Raoul's wedding. The drawer was locked, never opened. And Madame Giry and Meg did not know where Christine had hidden the key. Christine was lost, Madame Giry knew this, and it was time to try and pull her out of the dark fog that consumed her head.

"Are you all right, Madame?" Mathieu asked.

"Yes, yes quite all right," she said. "But you do not understand just how complicated this all is, monsieur. You may find yourself out of your depth. There are things you do not understand."

"I do understand, Madame. I assure you. I know the sensitive nature of all of this. That is why I am so eager to help you…"

"Is that the real reason you wish to help, monsieur?" she cut in "Do you want to get to the root of the scandal, and then sell your soul to the underworld of Parisian gossip? I should have known, you are in this only for personal gratification!" there was anger in her face, and her lips were set in a grim line.

"No, madame, I can assure you that is not the case," He said calmly, "I have more hatred for gossip and scandal than you can ever imagine. But I shall be honest with you, I do have a personal motive for wanting to help mademoiselle Daae. It is a personal test for me. If I can help her, then I will have succeeded in something. It will make my grasp of the human psyche more acute. But that is my only motive, I promise you."

She gave a long sigh. Defeated, there was a large wall before her eyes, blocking out everything. She did not know the way around it, it could not be crushed by anger, and she could not crawl beneath it, but was too high to climb. And here was this man, offering her a rope. And she did not know whether to use it to climb, or lasso it around her neck and be done with it.

All she knew was that she was tired, so very tired.

"I can make no guarantees, monsieur."

"But you will let me speak with mademoiselle Daae?" he asked, becoming hopeful.

"Yes," she said ruefully "I will, God help me."

oOo

Erik had always liked London. The carriage trotted through the darkened streets, and he felt as though he were in a labyrinth once again. The streets were narrow and overcrowded, and the endless rows of buildings were black silhouettes against the smoke sodden sky. Henry lived in the Limehouse district, a working class den that merged with the edge of the river.

From his clothing and accent, it was clear that Henry could live in a much more desirable location. Erik knew there to be some beautiful parts of this city. But Henry preferred to be here, amongst the real people and the grit, far away from the masquerade of high society.

It was a perfect place for a man with much to hide.

Erik sank down into his seat, looking at the world beyond the glass, his arms pulled tightly across his chest. This was a strange world to behold. People, everywhere were the people. Too many for his liking, after spending so long in the bowels of darkness, it was slightly unnerving to have so much human life thrust in his face. He had travelled, of course, but then he had been constantly on the move, always heading away from the crowds. And now he was heading into their pit, more deeply than he had ever gone before, straight into the belly of the beast.

He had no intention of talking to Henry; he despised meaningless, idle conversation. And he would not waste his breath on it. He didn't want the world, and the world didn't want him. What a perfect harmony this was! Despising everything and being despised, much more fun than love, it was much easier to hate. Hate gave its rewards freely, and was generous with its affection. Love was barren, like a decaying landscape, offering neither joy nor freedom, only a demented and cruel seclusion. Hate was his friend, and darkness his ally. Love and light could be damned! He did not feel them. He did not want them.

Why, then, could feel a strange sensation gnaw at his heart?

He remembered Siam, the last man he had killed in the service of Rajan. He wanted go back, and uncoil the noose from that man's neck. To make him live again, to put the air back into his lungs. He wondered now, if any of those men were really worthy of death, or if their demise was simply to entertain an opium addict, with too much time on his hands.

Erik knew he had acted like a puppet in the service of Rajan, killing when the orders were given, and he hated himself for it. But he could not dwell upon it; his useless atonement would not raise the dead. The past lived where it lived, and would carry on unchanged.

But now he was left with this ache, a very subtle and clever ache. That would only stab when he least expected it too. It would creep up behind him, and whisper in his ear, _murderer…murderer…_

This had been with him since he had killed Siam. And he knew why. He had never thought of the families before, whenever he had killed, he had been detached to the realities of human life. They were just men, nameless and anonymous. He knew nothing of them, and he did not care. But when Siam had mentioned his bride, he was no longer a stranger. He had become a person, a breathing man with real flesh, with a family and a life. He had made himself real.

It had thrust Christine into Erik's mind. His efforts of forgetting her were thwarted in a single second. And he had fallen like Achilles, fallen backwards, back into a relentless descent into the past…

He could give no other reason for his return to Siam's house on the night before he left India, and for the money he had anonymously left for the man's widow. Guilt had driven him to her door; he could not bring her husband back. But at least she could live in comfort, and her child would not starve. Praise the Lord for small mercies! He thought bitterly.

"Have you visited London before, Erik?" asked Henry.

"Once, long ago," Erik said, still staring out onto the dark streets "it hasn't changed one iota. The rich live in castles, and the poor in dirt, much like every other capital city I have seen,"

"I hope you will find my house more suited to your tastes." Henry remarked

"I'm sure I will. Thank you, for inviting me to stay as a guest in your home. I am truly humbled."

There was sincerity in that statement, no trace of hostility or sarcasm. Henry smiled and nodded in acceptance. It was strange to receive respectful gratitude, from such a brooding figure.

"And you have my assurances that my stay here will be a short one." Erik continued.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I do not intend to stay in England any longer than necessary."

Henry wanted to inquire further, but the tone with witch Erik spoke did not invite questioning. He knew nothing about this man, only the very little Rajan had told him, and that his name was Erik, and that he wore a mask. And he suspected that the masked man was very keen to keep it this way.

"Ah, here we are," said Henry as the carriage came to an abrupt stop outside a large townhouse. Erik peered out of the window, tracing the structure of the building with the eyes of an architect.

The house was built from black stone, with a simple exterior. Neither handsome nor ugly, the only notable feature being the large blue door, ominous in appearance. Erik thought that this, too, should be black. It had a large knocker in the form of a singing angel; her mouth was open and her eyes blank. There was detail calved into her face, a cheekbone, eyebrows, a diminutive nose that came to a graceful point. But her eyes had been left blank, no detail: they were dead.

It was only when Erik descended the carriage steps that he noticed it had been raining. The air smelt of smoke, gluttonous smoke that clung inside the nostrils, and stuck to the damp air. And of people, feet, sweat and scalp. Never had the desire for the free air of the French countryside been so alight within him. It was sickening, really, that the capital city of the richest country in the world could let its masses live in such poverty. It seemed that this part of London was under a black cloud, but a man-made cloud, of soot and smog.

Erik knew he should have been content here, in this empire of gloom. It was as though God had cultivated it for him, a haven of shadow in which he could be king. All he had ever wanted. But instead, he could feel himself yearning, for the opulent golden balconies, and multicoloured marbles of the Opera. He wanted the land above, not the cellars. He wanted to see that world of light once more, where love and hope were infinite. And where voice's soared amongst the stars…

But that was the past; the Opera had burnt along with the ashes of its ghost. He had seen to that. This was his life now, he could not go back. He would not.

He pulled his cloak around him and followed Henry up the steps of the house.

oOo

Some hours later, Erik joined Henry in his drawing room. He usually hated to socialise in such a way, but he felt obliged to his new host, and the lure of liquor and opium was calling to the weak side of his heart.

It was a small room, with dark walls and antique furniture. The large fireplace blazed furiously, like a tunnel leading straight into Hell. The walls were lined with Antlers and heads of deer, mounted onto mahogany crests. It seemed that death was respectable in this way, something to decorate with and be proud of. Their dark, empty eyes watched him, as if they knew he was a murderer. Erik felt like he was being stalked by death, it was always there, everywhere he turned.

Henry was standing beside a small bureau, filling two glasses with dark liquid; he stopped when Erik entered the room.

"I assume you drink, Erik?" Erik nodded, and Henry continued to pour.

Henry was startled by the change in his guest's appearance. In the place of the sullied rogue he had seen before, was an elegantly dressed gentleman, with dark hair smoothed away from his face. There was nothing left of the wild animal he had been greeted with. And had it not been for the mask, he would have believed himself to be in the company of a true noble.

"I hope you found your quarters comfortable," said Henry, walking slowly to sit in the chair opposite Erik's.

"Yes, I thank you, it is very comfortable indeed." Erik took the drink from Henry.

Henry put the decanter on the small table in front of them.

"Would you care for a sample of Rajan's finest?" asked Henry, motioning to the long opium pipe in the corner. Erik considered it; he could taste the temptation, ripe as the first fruits of summer. The sweet fumes would caress his pain, and make him numb to the world. But for some strange reason, he heard himself decline.

He did not want to distil the pain any longer, he wanted to feel it.

"Very well," sighed Henry, reaching for a silver cigar case, "I shall content myself with a _de Monterey_ instead," he lit the cigar on the fire and then sat down. He lifted his glass to Erik.

"Cheers."

Erik lifted his glass and nodded, and than sank the contents of the glass whole. He felt the warm liquid surge through him, making his blood warm.

"Help yourself, my friend. There is more where that came from." Erik accepted the invitation, and filled his glass once more. But this time he stared into the glass, and swirled the liquid around.

They sat in silence this way for another hour. Neither of them trying to make conversation, and soon the decanter was empty. Henry lit the last cigar from his case.

He inhaled the smoke deeply, and looked at his curious new house guest.

"What happened?" he asked, with a casual wave at the mask, as if it were no more than small graze upon Erik's cheek; something to be discussed freely. The masked man did not move, nor answer. His eyes were red rimmed, but Henry did not know whether this was from liquor, or from a deep sadness. "Did you have a fall of some kind?"

Despite himself, Erik began to laugh. How ironic and ridiculous that comment was! With that one question, his life of self imprisonment seemed farcical. His exile from the human race reduced to some kind of amusing play, in which he was both the audience and the player. None of it mattered, nobody cared. He had done it all to himself. It was laughable!

It was awful.

"You could call it that," he said solemnly.

"How bad is it?" Henry inquired.

"It has sent many screaming for their lives, and others, others have gouged out their eyes, so that they are never again forced to look upon anything so repulsive." He gave Henry a small, almost sardonic smile.

To Erik's surprise, Henry gave a spontaneous snort of laughter, and smacked his hand against his left knee. As if this was far too ridiculous a notion. He took Erik's dark confession in the form of a jest, and Erik found that he didn't mind. He could let Henry think whatever he wanted; he could pretend that behind this mask there was only a small scratch. He could be who he wanted to be. And so he smiled again and said:

"I am glad my misfortune amuses you,"

"Excuse me, my friend -" Henry managed, catching his breath, "You must forgive me; I wasn't laughing at your misfortune, just at what a curious pair we make,"

Erik looked at him, confused. Henry pulled up his right trouser leg, slowly, revealing a wooden pole; the end was rounded off and filled his shoe perfectly.

"I hadn't noticed," said Erik, but now as he thought about it, there was a curious slowness to the way in which Henry moved.

"Nobody does," said Henry, letting the trouser leg fall back into place. "I have become something of an expert at hiding it,"

"How did it happen?"

"Local trouble, _many_ years ago, do not worry, the man who did this to me paid greatly,"

Erik nodded, his curiosity growing, despite his own protests that he didn't care.

"Look at the two of us, Erik, a man with a stick for a leg and a man in a mask, what a strange pair we do make!"

"Indeed. And we are out of brandy," Erik said, holding the empty decanter.

"Ah, so we are! I'll ask the maid to fetch some more, wait a moment," he cleared his throat "Christine!" he called.

He noticed that the name caused Erik to sit up, as though a red hot poker had been stabbed into his gut.

The name shot through Erik, an unexpected slap across the face. It invaded his soul like toxic venom, slowly spreading through his veins. Every part of his body was now becoming paralysed, and he could not move. He had banished this name; he had cursed it, hated it …and loved it. And then sent it to exile, and now it was back, from the mouth of this new stranger. His past was unravelling inside him again. And he wanted to say the name, just once, to feel it in his mouth, to whisper it, sing it, posses it!

He heard the girl enter the room, she was standing next to him; he could feel her presence. She was not his Christine, he knew this, but for the tiniest moment he could let himself pretend. He could make-believe it was her, the purest rose, his sweetest sin. Her hair was wild and dark, and her eyes were large, they reflected in them all the light he needed, they were his world. She would put her hand on his shoulder, and touch him freely…she would sing for him…

He lifted his eyes. It was not her. A short, blonde girl stared back. Her small eyes darted over his face, for the smallest moment, and then she looked at her master. She did not notice his mask, it didn't seem to matter. She regarded him with the same vagueness she would with any stranger. He did not matter. He was not frightening, and for the first time in a long time, he felt very small. He was not a ghost to her, just a stranger in a mask.

Henry must have said something to her, because she nodded and left the room. Erik could feel the cold sweat beneath his palms where his hands had gripped the chair.

Henry noticed the change in the masked man. But he chose to make no comment; instead he filled their glasses with the new bottle of liquor, and handed a glass to Erik.

"Rajan wrote to me about you," said Henry. There was a grim silence. Erik took the glass from him; it seemed very small in his large hands. "…he told me that you are a skilled and efficient killer."

Erik made a snarl from the back of his throat.

"I am skilled in many things," he said tonelessly. "Why is it that men seem to have the highest regard for the death of their own species? The more I see of this world the more I am sickened by its bloodlust! The more I am dissatisfied with the human race. I can also build palaces, and show you magic that will make your eyes bleed. Did you know that? Did he write and tell you that? I suppose not, and I suspect you don't want to hear about those things, do you? Just the deaths."

There was hatred in his voice, but also something else, a bitter, angry sadness.

Henry was stunned by this shift in persona; this man was a wild paradox, to be so mortified by death, and yet to have been responsible for so many murders… Something about it was unnerving. It was as if Erik saw himself as a separate entity to the rest of the human race. Or was it that just that he was a man who was begging to repent his sins?

Either way, Henry did not care. It was becoming clear to him that, in Erik, he could perhaps find a very powerful and sinister ally.

oOo


	9. Dance of the Moirae: Part II

Hi, guys! Here is the horribly delayed (and lengthy) chapter nine. I'm really sorry for the late update!

As always, please let me know your thoughts. And more importantly, whether you are still enjoying the story!

* * *

_I felt a Cleaving in my Mind --_

_As if my Brain had split --_

_I tried to match it -- Seam by Seam –_

_But could not make it fit._

Emily Dickinson – I felt a Cleaving in my mind.

oOo

_**Dance of the Moirae. Part II.**_

oOo

The bright autumn day had turned into a cheerful early evening. A blush of red was cast across the sky, promising that another happy day would follow. The low sun was almost white, and twinkled through the trees like a proud star. Red leaves littered the streets and gave the impression of fire in the rusty boulevards. Peace seemed to be within the air itself, and through the window, one could be deceived into thinking it was an evening in high summer.

Christine held her head in her hands, but her brain was spinning on a violent axis. The sun came through the window, making warm patches on her back. It was a comforting touch from a force she could not see, the warm hands made her skin tingle.

The notes were there, again. Dragging her, they seemed to pull her down into a pit. Trying to make her the queen of a dark realm she did not want. She held in the urge that made her want to scream, the constant throb in her lungs that was begging for release. Hammering against her insides, it would be easy to scream, she thought, it was harder to keep it all inside. And the ache wasn't too bad; one could become quite accustomed to it.

"You should eat something," said Meg's concerned voice from the doorway. Christine looked up at her from where she was sitting on the divan, red smudges were on her face from where her fingers had pressed her skin.

"I will, I was waiting for your mother to come home," she saw that Meg was dressed in a formal gown, and suddenly cursed her own self indulgence.

"You look beautiful, Meg. What time do you have to leave?"

"Peter should be here any moment." Meg said, moving to stand by the window. "Are you sure you'll be all right? I can stay home, if you need me to, he will understand -"

Christine raised a hand, shaking her head softly.

"I would never hear of such a thing. I'm fine, I promise. It's just a headache."

Meg frowned to herself, _just a headache_. It was always a just a headache.

"…and the food at _Le Meurice_ is to die for, I could never let you miss out on that!" Christine said, forcing a smile onto her face, like a painted mouth in an opera parody. She knew Meg would not leave unless she was completely satisfied that she was all right. And she wanted to be alone; she could not bear for Meg to see how weak she was.

Meg seemed to be making an inventory of Christine's whole person, taking in her posture, her hands, her skin, and her eyes, especially her eyes. The one place she knew Christine could not hide from her. Christine blinked a little and tried to look away; knowing that behind her eyes there would be nothing. Not even darkness.

Meg shaped her mouth as if to say something, but a knock on the door stopped her. She looked out of the window.

"It's Peter," she smiled slightly and made her way across the room, "Are you sure you'll be alright? Why don't you come, yes, come with us! We can wait for you."

Christine shook her head again, touched by Meg's concern.

"Just go," she said, laughing. "You're keeping Peter waiting."

Meg frowned. "Very well, I'll see you tomorrow. Tell mamman I said goodnight."

"I will, now go!"

Meg's eyes made one final sweep of her friend. And she gave Christine a crooked, almost regretful smile. A look of sincere pity; and then she turned and left the room.

When the front door closed Christine let her smile fall, like a red velvet curtain covering the stage. She could be herself now, hiding behind these misty drapes. The world could no longer see her. She was almost at peace in this melancholy, she had made a home inside it, and now did not know the way back.

The notes made their way into her mind again. _Creeping._ And that voice, echoing through the dark mists of her mind. It was both enthralling and obscene. And she knew she should be appalled by its presence within her; but she was not.

It was sewing itself into her very soul, an unbreakable weave that could never be undone. Voices could be dangerous. A voice might not be able to break a bone, but it could pierce the soul. And life could seep out, a corrupted mess on the floor. And once it was out, it could not get back inside.

Christine walked up the stairs, slowly. Floating amongst the mist, she found herself outside her room, staring at the small locked drawer. She wanted to beak the gauze separating her from the past, suffocating her with its veiled fingers. But she was also disgusted by her want. The music wanted to be let inside completely, to flood her body, to drown her. And she wanted to dip her feet, to be submerged in its glorious warmth.

But this was wrong; she needed to burn it! Erase it from the world. Destroy the thing that had tainted her, destroy the thing that made her regret things that she did not know she felt.

_Burn it…_

She rushed to get the key that she had hidden in the drawer of her vanity, it was still there, at the back, hidden within an old stocking. She was shaking, her fingers quivering as she peeled back the fabric and held the cold, iron key. It was a gloomy weight in her small hand. And there was an urge inside her, drop the key, let the secret live … do not open the past.

She knew that once she got the music out, she would never be able to put it back. She either had to drench herself in it, or destroy it, there was no other way. They could not coexist; there was no peace in this world for both of them. She knew that she must either bow to the intolerable pull of this music, or continue to struggle against the tide of freedom.

What scared her most was that she did not know which she wanted more. This ache would not subside, not until she saw those notes again, felt them in her mouth, and maybe even sing?

No, not sing. She would never sing it.

"_Christine?"_ someone spoke her name, and there were footsteps on the stairs…a voice whispering in the dark…

_Madame Giry_.

It was only Madame Giry. Calling to her normally; not whispering. Christine dropped the key, and it clanked against the wooded floor, a loud crash in her ears. Panicking, she kicked it beneath the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in hard gasps; Madame Giry would make her take out the music. She would have to face it all, in front of eyes that judged her aching soul. She would also have to see the paper, those hideous words that announced that Raoul had married someone else; he had married someone else because she did not have the courage to try and keep him…

"Ah, here you are my dear," said Madame Giry, standing in the doorway. She noticed the colour of Christine's face and her smile turned upside down. "Are you all right, child?"

Christine felt an arm go around her waist, as madame Giry guided her to the edge of the bed. She pushed on Christine's shoulders slightly, forcing her to sit down. But Christine could feel herself floating, she was high above them, looking down.

"Yes, I'm fine, honestly." But she knew the cold beads of sweat on her forehead had given her away. "I was just feeling dizzy, I think I need to lie down…"

"You need to eat," diagnosed Madame Giry. "Come, I will help you down the stairs, you can lie on the divan,"

Christine winced inwardly; Madame Giry's voice quelled the notes in her head. The music was gone; silence ate at the tunnels of her mind. The music was gone. But it would be back, she knew … it always came back.

They made their way down stairs slowly, and Madame Giry helped Christine to the divan, she placed a shawl over the girl.

Christine let her body relax, letting every muscle rest against the cushioned fabric. She closed her eyes. It was all right, she thought, everything was all right. The smell of tangy onion stew soon filled the room, and she realised how hungry she was. It was a kind of hunger that hurt, stinging with a sickly ache.

Part of her did not want to eat; this pain was something else to focus on. It was something to pull her mind away from the tirade of echoes in her mind. It was a distraction. This pain made her real; she was a normal girl who needed something as simple as food. That was all that was needed to cure her. She could give a label to this ache, she was normal.

Hours must have passed, because by the time Christine opened her eyes the window was dark, the smell of the stew was stronger now and she thought her stomach might consume itself. The ache had turned into a vicious throb, and ravaged her senses with its angry need.

She sat up, and watched the shawl fall from her small frame. She looked at the clock on the mantle piece, six thirty - she had only been asleep for an hour. She could hear the familiar sounds of Madame Giry in the kitchen, the clanking of cutlery and pots. Such domestic and normal noises, she looked into the modest fire that crackled in front of her and wondered if the whole thing had been a dream. Maybe Raoul would call on her soon, and take her to supper, she wore his ring around her neck, she would soon be his wife.

"Supper is ready, my dear,"

Christine blinked several times and looked at Madame Giry, she shook herself, realising that this was her reality. This was all there was.

They ate in relative silence, Christine was drowning herself in the delights of quenching the pain in her stomach. And Madame Giry was happy to see the young girl actually eating something.

"I have a guest coming tomorrow, for afternoon tea." Said Madame Giry, lowering her folk. "I would like you to be present."

Christine swallowed and looked at the older woman. There was something heavy, and almost strange about this casual request.

"Of course," Christine forced a smile, "Is it anyone I know?"

"No, I do not believe so, but I should like you to be present, all the same. His name is Monsieur la Claire."

Madame Giry picked up her folk and continued eating, without another glance at Christine.

oOo

It was late when Meg returned from her supper with Peter. Christine was right; the food at _Le Meurice_ had been to die for. Meg could still taste the delicate flavors in her mouth, mixed with the sweet tang of wine that still sizzled on her tongue. It had been a beautiful meal, and she could picture her new life with Peter so clearly. She felt so happy. They would laugh together, and she believed all of his sincere promises. She had no reason to doubt him. She could imagine how Peter would have liked Raoul; there were many similarities between the two young men. Both of them were kind, devoted and generous. And she felt a renewed sadness at the thought that Christine had given up such a life.

Edgar had joined them later in the evening, he had been dining at _Café de la Paix_ in the _Place de l'Opéra_, and had taken up the invitation to meet afterwards. Meg noticed with amusement that he wore his usual spectacles with removed lenses. And when he took out his pocket watch, there were no hands on the clock face. Edgar smiled at the watch, and placed it back into his pocket. Meg shook her head and laughed slightly, Peter and his father were poles apart. She had never known two people to differ so. The only similarity was the bright smile and kind nature that seemed to shine from them both.

"I would certainly recommend the place, Peter!" Edgar had said after giving them a detailed description of his meal "I'm sure young Marguerite would like to be taken there, wouldn't you, my dear?" he winked at Meg, pretending Peter was unable to see. Then he continued:

"Of course, the place has lost much of its gaiety since the Opera closed, not like the glory days when the Patrons and Composers would frequent the tables. I saw Massenet there once. Don't give me that look, Peter! I promise you, it was him, very nice chap, very nice indeed. Those were the days! That part of the city isn't the same now. There is no sparkle, no zest. But still, I suppose it is one of the most beautiful restaurants in Paris, the painted ceilings are exquisite, you should take young Marguerite soon, Peter, you really should,"

"I will father." Said Peter, Meg could tell he was beginning to lose patience with his father. Peter had wanted to take her to _Café de la Paix_ since their arrival in Paris. And now his father would assume that when they did go, it would be because of his recommendation alone.

"Has the commission for a new opera house been approved?" Meg asked.

Edgar rubbed his hand over his face and gave a weary noise.

"Yes my dear, they have some young upstart architect taking on the commission. _Not _the man I wanted, but still, that's another matter. But the project is likely to take many years to complete. I wish I could retract my involvement in the whole thing! Nobody seems to care for my opinion!"

Edgar took a large gulp of wine, and then his mood seemed to brighten.

"But that is enough melancholy for one evening, let us talk of happier things!"

And so they had spent rest of the evening talking of the wedding, and art shows and of the memories they all shared from London. Edger stated that although he missed London, Paris would always be his favorite city. He and Peter's mother had shared their happiest years in Paris. And whenever he walked down the boulevards or took a ride in the Bois du Boulogne, he would always think of her. Meg was touched by this undying devotion, and began to wonder what Peter's mother had been like.

These thoughts had stayed with her most of the way home, and as she entered the small house, she was surprised to find her own mother still awake. Madame Giry had pulled one of the armchairs close to the fire, and had black shawl pulled around her shoulders.

"Did you have a nice evening my dear?" Madame Giry asked as Meg entered the room.

"Oh yes, mamman, the food was delicious. I could eat it all over again!"

Meg crouched on the floor, and took off her gloves; she held her bare hands up to the fire. Madame Giry smiled, and listened as Meg began to tell her all about the food, and about the opera commission. She had not seen Meg this happy for such a long time.

"Is Christine asleep?"

"Yes, she retired several hours ago, the poor child was exhausted."

Meg frowned, and her manner seemed to wilt.

"Mamman, how long can we let this go on? Christine is fading, I feel like I do not know her anymore. I know how you feel about confronting her with the truth, but this seems worse, I feel like such a liar!"

"_Please _keep your voice down, Marguerite!" Madame Giry said in a harsh whisper. She was conscious that Christine might awake and hear their conversation.

"I'm sorry, mamman, but how can we let this continue? What we are doing is almost as bad as what _he_ did. We are deceiving her mamman."

"I know," Madame Giry rubbed her forehead "I know, my child. But do not compare this to what he did. It is because of his deception that Christine is as she is now. He cast this spell upon her, and now _we_ must collect the pieces of the life he destroyed. He destroyed Christine, and I can never forgive him for that, no matter what his motives were."

"Do you have any idea where he is?"

"No, I do not. And what scares me most, is that I may never know. He could be anywhere, he might even be dead."

Madame Giry was shocked to hear Meg gasp. As if the life of that man mattered to her, as though she hoped he was still alive.

"Do you really think so?"

"No, no I do not really think he is dead," Madame Giry said with a sour laugh "he will linger in this world as long as Christine is alive, he would never leave her so completely. His life will always be bound to her in some way."

"So, you believe that he really does love her?"

"Yes, I have always believed that. And while it gives him some credit, it is not enough. It does not make him good. Erik does not follow the same moral code as the rest of us."

Meg jumped at the sound of his name, as if it were some dark curse that should never be uttered aloud. Madame Giry gave her a reassuring smile, and then continued.

"Erik must redeem himself before he could ever love Christine properly, the way she deserves to be loved. He must leave the mask behind and become a man. And I do not think he will ever be able to do that, life cannot be found in the shadows, and he will never make a life in the light. It would mean confronting the past, facing up to all of the lives he has ruined."

"And you don't think he could do that?"

"Yes he could, but he does not _want_ to. And that is the problem."

"But, mamman, he might be the only thing that brings Christine back to herself. We could try, we could talk to her. Or maybe try to find him again, we have to do something."

"I tried to find him once;" Madame Giry said, staring into the fire "I even spent months wishing for his return, willing him to come back! What madness, wishing for the return of a man who has ruined so much! But then I saw the light. It is better this way."

"What do you mean?"

"Having that man back in our lives would be a curse far worse than this one. I do not believe him to be evil, he does have some morals, but he is not innocent. Once I thought that he might be able to repent, to redeem himself, but as I said, I do not think he will ever want to. And until he does, every path he turns down will become a dangerous one. I will not put you or Christine through that again, not ever."

Meg nodded softy, the image of a man hanging from the rafters still burned her mind.

"That is why I have tried to find help elsewhere."

Meg's eyes found her mother's. She was confused, but then remembered something her mother had shown her when she first came back to Paris. It was a letter from a doctor, claiming that his new methods might be able to help Christine. Her mother had written back angrily, saying that he should mind his own business, and ignore any rumours he had heard concerning Mademoiselle Daae. And that he was not to try to contact them again.

"The doctor," Meg whispered "But, mamman, what made you change your mind? Does Christine know?"

"No, she knows nothing. I don't know what else to do, this is the only way I can think to try and save us all. None of us can carry on like this. If Christine has really forgotten, he may be able to bring it back. We cannot do this alone."

Meg was staring at the floor, in her heart she knew this seemed so wrong, but she also knew there was no other way. Raoul was gone, Erik was lost and Christine did not know herself. It seemed to be the only way.

"Meg, I need to know I have your support. We both need to be strong,"

Meg looked at her mother, her eyes full of tears.

"Yes, mamman. You have my support. But, are you absolutely sure, can we trust him?"

"I hope so, child. He seems to be a kind man. And I believe his intentions to be sincere. He is more trustworthy than Erik; I can assure you of that!"

"Very well, when are we to meet him?"

"He is coming tomorrow for afternoon tea. It will be very informal, just a chance for him to meet Christine and for her so see that he means no harm. I would like you to be there also. I do not want Christine to be overwhelmed."

"Yes, mamman, I'll be there."

"Good, now to bed with you. Tomorrow looks to be a very trying day. We all need to rest."

Meg nodded and kissed her mother goodnight, leaving Madame Giry to sit by the fire alone.

oOo

To his own surprise, Erik found that he was growing fond of Henry's company, the old man did not intrude on his privacy and there were no questions asked. It seemed that Henry was completely content to let his guest do as he wished. Nothing was asked of Erik, he was not the master's magician, not the assassin, nor the freak in a cage. He was just a guest, and Henry seemed content just to have him in the household.

He had been seen or heard of Christine, the maid that had been present on his first evening in the house, she seemed to have disappeared completely. And Erik was glad, hearing that name again was worse than any torture. It was a constant reminder of the past, of the ghosts that would not vanish. He wanted to erase that name from the world, extinguish its existence, and destroy the beautiful sound forever.

But more than anything, he found that he wanted to say it again. He dared himself, over and over, just to whisper it once, to set those beautiful syllables free on the air.

"_Christine…"_

It had escaped his lips before his mind could stop it, and he shivered at the noise. It was such a beautiful sound, her name, delicate and soft, like a sigh…

He cursed himself, fighting the sensations that stirred within. He could never see her again. He had exiled himself from France, from her life. She was happy now, she was happy! She did not need him. That was enough, to know that she was happy, and alive. He could find a relative peace in that, he had given her back the freedom he had taken from her. He had loosened the shackles and let her free - she was free of him now.

But he knew he would always be chained to her.

He could live just knowing that she was happy, it was enough, he thought. She was still out there, somewhere, maybe even thinking of him. He wondered if she did think of him in her new life, but then he felt the blood stop cold in his fingertips. _Of course she thought of him_. He was sure to be inside every nightmare, the black shape in every shadow, tormenting her in the darkness! He was probably in every place that haunted her, every place that made her sad…

There was too much blood on his hands, _in his soul_, she would never think of him. Not in the way he wanted her to. Only in the moments of her blackest despair, and in her new life with the Vicomte, he doubted there was room for despair.

He left his room, needing to escape these thoughts. He descended the steps two at a time, he needed to leave this house! He needed air. But he knew that beyond that door lay something worse than the torment of his own mind. Masses of people, hundreds of them, ready to crush him with their eyes. He would give anything to be back in the bowels of the Opera, in the freedom of the labyrinth.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Henry.

"Ah, there you are," said the old man "I was just coming to see if you fancied another round of chess? You were at an advantage last night, I was out of spirits! I think I deserve a rematch."

Erik tried to compose himself. Henry was eyeing him curiously, clearly confused by his masked guest's apparent inner frenzy. Erik levelled his breathing and calmed his mind. When he spoke his voice was low and reserved.

"So, you wish for me to beat you again? I admire your courage, monsieur! But be warned, I will not take pity on you."

"Pity? Ha! I have taken many men down in my time, boy! I can beat you without your pity, or perhaps you fear you might loose to an old man?"

"I can assure you I fear nothing of the sort. I merely wanted to save you and your pride. But if you insist on embarrassing yourself again, please, do lead on!"

Erik followed Henry into the study. And here they stayed for the next two hours, no words were spoken, and hardly a breath passed between them. For those two hours nothing else existed, the pieces moved in strategic patterns, and one by one disappeared from the board. Erik would occasionally steal a glace at Henry, and smile at the presence of sweat on old man's brow.

Erik set his pieces into place, knowing that he had defeated the old man once again. He knew he should claim his victory and end this façade, but he found he could not. He could not deny himself the joy of seeing Henry squirm, Henry Cranmer, the notorious crime lord of London, dangling by a thread! It was not the same as terrorizing a theatre, or sending fear into the hearts of the ballet rats. But it was a triumph all the same, the wicked elation that his dark heart would always crave.

At last, he knew it was time to release the old man from his suffering.

"Check mate." Erik said coolly, as he moved his king into place. He sat back in his chair with his arms folded. He could not contain his victorious smile.

"How did you?" Henry gasped, studying the board, "I had you! I was winning, how did you did that?" he wiped his sweat laden brow on his sleeve and continued to study the board.

"Do you demand _another_ rematch? Because I should find it rather tiresome to beat you for the second time in one evening,"

Henry was rubbing his temples with his index fingers.

"Damn you. How did you do that? I was sure I had you!"

"I would tell you -"

"Ah, let me guess, but then you would have to kill me?" Henry finished.

"Of course."

"Well, I'm perplexed. You seem to be full of surprises, my friend." Henry stood up and walked over to his bureau. "Brandy?"

Erik nodded and they moved over to the chairs by the fire place.

"I will beat you soon, Erik! Mark my words,"

"I am alive with anticipation."

Henry gave a contented chuckle. "Your arrogance astounds me, my boy, it really does. Tell me, have you ever lost anything? Or are you one of these men to whom victory is a common thing?"

Erik swallowed the contents of his glass back with a hard gulp. And Henry was sure he saw a ripple of pain flash across the unmasked side of his face.

"Victory is a very subjective term. Either side of a battle may claim be the victor, depending on their point of view. I would not say that I _lost_ something … but I have set something free."

"The girl," Henry said, nodding softly. Erik's eyes shot to his.

"I do not know who has provided you with this information, monsieur. But I advise you to tread very carefully."

Henry raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Calm yourself, my friend. I did not intend to anger you; it was something Rajan mentioned to me in his letter."

He saw the veins in Erik's neck begin to tighten, his breathing looked painful.

"…but I will not press you on the matter. Not if you find it too painful to speak of."

"There is nothing to say. I let her go, and now she is happy. Her life is no longer my concern." Erik filled his glass and raised it high in the air "To the _Vicomtesse de Chagny_!" he spoke calmly, but his voice was laced with spite.

Henry saw flecks of venom glowing in Erik's eyes. _The Vicomtesse de Chagny_ that name was familiar, de Chagny, the old Comte de Chagny! Of course, Henry remembered him, and his two sons. Someone had once tried to hire him to kill the old Comte, but Henry had refused. He did not particularly care for Parisian nobles, but he did not want to see them dead either. In fact, he found the aristocracy to be his biggest form of income. It seemed every nobleman in Europe had someone he needed to be discreetly taken care of.

It was routine for him to follow the movements of such large families. Digging up every piece of dirt they tried to bury. He did not kill nobility, but he had no scruples in an innocent threat of blackmail. And he had followed the de Chagny family with great interest.

"You speak of the Vicomte's young bride."

"She is married then," Erik said bitterly "I had not heard it for sure."

"Yes, several months ago. I hear she is quite the beauty." Henry said, aware that he was treading on ice.

Erik made a resentful grunt "Some might choose to call it that."

He was staring into the fire with a hunger. When he spoke again, his voice was eerily calm. "Pray tell me, how does a man of your _talent_s come to know the honourable de Chagny family?"

"A former client once had a grudge against the old Comte." Said Henry "He wanted me to take care of things for him, but I do not kill nobility. However, I do make it my business to know all of their business. "

"And where do the Vicomte and his lovely bride reside now, a mansion just outside of Paris? I'm sure he has built quite the palace for her!"

"No, they sailed to America not two months ago. The Vicomte is in charge of all his fathers' investments over there."

"America?" Erik said in disbelief, the anger falling from his voice. He could feel his hands begin to shake. She was in _America?_

"Yes, old Duchamp wasn't too pleased; he was very fond of his daughter, but he and the Comte go back several -"

"Duchamp? What do you mean?"

"Annabelle Duchamp, the new Vicomtesse. Well, she is Annabelle de Chagny now I suppose. "

The colour drained from the visible side of Erik's face, making his skin and the mask akin to one another. He felt the soul fall from his body, and there was no rope, nothing to stop this rapid decline into darkness. He fought hard to assimilate this information. _Annabelle Duchamp_ was the new Vicomtesse. How was this so? He could not believe the Vicomte would forsake Christine.

It could not be so!

"You are certain of this? You are certain her name is Annabelle Duchamp?"

"Yes, my friend. I am certain."

Erik stood and began to pace the room. Knowing only that he needed to move, a sickly tide was rising in his stomach. The rope was around his neck now, and he was sure that he was sweating blood. The hot panic in his veins made him want to burst. He told himself that he did not care. Her life was of no concern to him. He did not care. He did not care.

_She wasn't married after all…_

But he did not care.

"Erik, are you all right? Dear God, will you stand still man! You are making me ill!"

Erik stopped pacing and rested his hands against the fire place. He kept his back to Henry. The fire soothed him, and he wanted that world beyond the flames. He wished with an ardent desire that he could escape into the hearth and never come back.

"Try to forget her, Erik." Henry said, trying to calm his guest "America is far away, you will never have to see her again"

"Indeed, I shall not." Erik said. His voice was thick and raspy. "Do not worry; I shall put Annabelle de Chagny in the darkest vault in my mind. You have my word; I shall never think of _her _again."

Something in the masked man's tone caused Henry's skin to prickle. And he felt a shiver pass through him. This man had suffered, it was clear, and Henry felt a strange pity for him.

"I do not know if this will ease your pain, but I do know how you feel."

Henry chose to ignore the sceptical scoff Erik gave to this statement.

"I lost someone once … The only girl I have ever loved."

Erik turned around slowly and fixed his gaze upon Henry. What was this? Was this man actually confiding in him? Sharing something from his past to try and ease his pain, to make him see that he was not alone? This was a very strange sensation; nobody had ever spoken to him like this before. Like a friend. He returned to his chair, accepting this new role of friend and confidant.

"What happened to her?" he heard himself ask.

"I lost her to another man." Henry said thoughtfully "I had known her for years, since our infancy. She promised to marry me. She was everything, the most beautiful girl the world has ever created. But she came to know of my dark ways, it seems she did not love me half so much when she found out who I really was! And she married another; she gave to him everything that should have been mine."

Erik frowned, unsure of what was required of him in such a situation. So he said the first thing that came into his mind.

"Is she still alive?"

Henry closed his eyes, and all of the muscles in his face fell.

"No, she is not…"

When he opened his eyes again, Erik saw the sorrow that swam in the dark pools of grey.

"…but my son is."

oOo


	10. The Hand That Dealt

_Yet if you should forget me for a while  
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:  
For if the darkness and corruption leave  
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,  
Better by far you should forget and smile  
Than that you should remember and be sad._

Christina Rossetti – Remember.

oOo

_**The Hand That Dealt**_

oOo

…_There are no words to describe how I feel, but if I had to choose one, I would say that I am burning. I am killing myself with a destructive force, and dying with the shameful pleasure I feel. I cannot express how this aches, and how I yearn for more. _

_I cannot shake this feeling that there must me more to this, more to me. My existence cannot be enclosed here, in this shell, where misery and pleasure swim in unison. Somewhere, my soul must be contented. There must be another world, beyond this one, where the trivial episodes of human endurance do not matter. Where we can all awaken and find a peace within ourselves. _

_I feel as though I am stuck between two worlds, this cold, living one, and the one that calls to me through fire. It is in me so deeply, and I am caught in its sharpened claws. It must be real! My spirit must exist in a higher realm, where all is well and at peace, where time is extinct and fate is lost. Somewhere my heart does not ache with this tremulous longing!_

_This cannot be all there is to me; skin, bones, and flesh. When I am gone my deeper side must live, the things I have seen and the things I have felt, they must not die! Because they are me, the things I feel and the places that hurt. They are all me, they make me. Not my face… my heart. I must exist on another plain, higher or lower, where I rest in the arms of that angel I created…_

oOo

"Your son?"

Henry let the question hover in the air between them, it dangled from side to side, creaking, like a hanging corpse.

They were crossing a line now, confiding dark secrets. And Henry knew he should not trust this man, this stranger, this man whose whole manner was as ungovernable as the dark clouds above. But Erik was an outcast, like himself. And even an outcast needed an acquaintance, a friend in whom he could confess his sins. God was never there to listen, so they needed to look out for one another. And Henry had carried this burden in his bones for twenty five years, _twenty five years_ - he needed to be free of it.

"Yes, my son." He said gravely, looking into the bottom of his glass. A rumble of thunder elapsed from outside, and the heavens gave a cry. A patting of rain began to drum against the window.

"I was a young man, a very foolish young man who fell in love with a girl, Isabella Rosenberg, I called her _Bella._" he whispered the name like a prayer, and Erik saw a small tear in the old man's faded eyes.

"She was beautiful, blonde hair and blue shining eyes. I was a rich young man, and she a gentleman's daughter. On the surface she was pure innocence, and I was honourable, the perfect match! But there was a darker side to Bella. She did not just want a formal courtship, she wanted danger and excitement. She craved it like a drug she could never have. I think that is why she chose me above all of the other foppish suitors that hovered around her like vermin. There was a darker side to me too, and Bella knew it!"

"We were young, too young, and too eager to gratify our youthful longings. We could not wait. She gave herself to me, and I took it all without thought or regard for the consequences. She did not fully understand the implications of our actions. But I did, I knew what could and what would happen, but I could not stop myself. "

"I wanted her more than anything else in the world, reason did not matter, and neither did the future. The young do not live for the future, I was a young man with needs to satisfy. And so took what I thought was mine by right, but she was not mine, her soul was too beautiful, too pure to ever belong to me! She was not a dark creature, not really, she just couldn't see herself clearly. But I had made her dark, I ruined her with my lust!"

"When she found out what I really was, what I was capable of, she was frightened. I will never forget the look in her eyes. She followed me one day, and she saw first hand exactly what I was capable of. She saw how evil I really was. She saw me hold a man down and cut his throat, and in the process, I slashed her heart in half. She was so scared and alone, realising she had wantonly given herself to a monster. She thought I would hurt her, that look of fear in her eyes is burned into my soul - I will never be free of it!"

Erik could feel his voice coil in his throat. The rain fell against the window in sporadic patches, clawing its way through the glass. Henry was very still, and he spoke calmly. As if revisiting a dream, a banished place just beyond recollection. And yet his faded eyes showed a sorrow Erik could identify with. It was a hopeless loss, a resigned sadness, something that could not be changed by circumstance or time. It was the look he had seen in Christine's eyes when she had left him. Telling him that she could not stay, she had no choice but to leave him. She could not stay because of all he had done.

"I wanted to marry her, I begged! I tried to convince her that I could change, that I wanted to be different. And it was all true, I would have changed, my life would be so different now if she had agreed to marry me. But she told me that she could never love a liar, a murderer, that my crimes had killed her love. And so she agreed to marry another, some foolhardy dandy that had been waiting the wings. He had wanted her for years, she was the belle of London. She gave to him all that should have been mine…she gave my son to him!"

"And you simply let her go? You did not ever try to get your son back? You, Henry Cranmer, the Crime Barron of London! _You_ let another man raise your child?"

"Yes,"

"Why?"

"Because I did not deserve to keep them."

Erik quirked a brow "Or perhaps you were too much of a coward."

"A coward I may be, but I did it all for her … for Bella."

The name caused Henry to bury his face in his hands, Erik could see the thick veins that bulged from the surface, those corrupted hands had killed without remorse. Weathered, damaged flesh, as spoiled as the skin under his mask. He realised then that Henry's flaws were much like his own, he too was scarred inside and out. There was a chilling irony to this, Erik thought, they had both been punished for their hideous crimes. They had both lost the one thing that could bring them salvation.

Erik had put all hope of redemption at the feet of Christine. In the belief that her unattainable love could correct his damaged soul. He had asked too much of her. It was not her burden to save him, he needed to do it himself.

In the denial of her love, he had lost control, he had fallen backwards into the void of hate. He had gone to India, played the role of an assassin, trying to find the vengeance for his own life in the deaths of others. So many deaths, so much hate, more than anyone could bear! There had been so many roles that defined him, the phantom, the angel of music, the assassin, and he wondered which, if any, was the real him. Where was Erik?

In his memories of Christine, in the small amount of goodness she had created, he had found a soul. A conscience grew inside of him now, a fragile little light that he had been following, giving him a reason to repent. And he _was_ sorry. He did not want to be a murderer, he did not want any of it. But he did not know how to be anything else. He had never been a friend, a lover or a husband. All he knew was hate.

Erik realised for the first time, that Christine had been right to leave him. By leaving him in the shadows, she had brought him back to life. In a way, she had saved him, and he had believed that he had saved her too, by setting her free. Giving her back the life he had taken.

But she was not living that life, she was not married. And with the Devil as his witness he needed to know why!

It was the same for Henry, although the old man could not see it. They both needed to face the past, no matter how far they ran, or how deeply they hid in the darkness, it would always find them.

"Does this other man, her husband, know that the child is not his?"

Henry gave a small, painful laugh. "Yes, he knows."

"He is alive, then?"

"Yes."

Erik fought hard to assimilate this information. This whole situation seemed farcical, even to a man who had live underground for so much of his life.

"And you have let your son believe that this other man is his father? And this man, he is content to lie to this child? He knowingly married a woman who had given herself to another man? And kept up the pretence for over twenty years?"

"He would have done anything be with her, raising another man's child was a small sacrifice to have a lifetime of her love…"

"How do you know this?"

"I know, because I would have done the same thing. If Isabella had chosen me, she could have set any condition she wanted. And I would have obeyed. The fool that I am! If she were to walk through that door now and ask me to take her back, I would! I would forgive everything. That is why I have stayed away for all of these years, she did not wish for me to know my son. And so I did not ever try to know him. And now she is dead, and I cannot break that promise to her."

"Then you are a fool."

"Perhaps I am. But you cannot tell me, Erik, that you would not have done the same thing – what if it had been your girl!"

"That is different." Erik glowered.

"How exactly?"

"_She_ loved you! You said so yourself!" The muscles in Erik's face tightened into a snarl. "You fool, you stupid old fool! You did not have to let her go. You should have tried, proven yourself to be worthy! But instead, you sentence yourself to a lifetime of misery! Very few are given the chance of happiness, and those that are discard it to the wind! They laugh in the face of sacrifice!"

Henry sat still, he knew Erik was no longer speaking of him, this was something else. But he was left feeling silently ashamed. Nobody had ever addressed him in such a way, _nobody dared_. And anybody else would have a pistol to their head at this moment.

But Erik was not fazed by reputation, rank or title. He did not care whether Henry was a killer or a peasant. He would address him however he wanted. Esteem and admiration meant nothing to him. He did not care. And his refusal to follow the constructed laws of human propriety was a fascinating thing to behold. He seemed indifferent to almost everyone and everything, but Henry could not forget the look in Erik's eyes when he had heard the servant's name. Since Erik's arrival at this house nothing had penetrated his aloof, almost arrogant reserve. Nothing, that is, except the name _Christine._

And so, Henry chose to ignore Erik's outburst, he was unclear as to the source of this passion, but he did not want to anger the masked many any more than necessary. When he spoke again he kept his voice calm and low.

"He is a man now. A man of twenty and five, he is a handsome fellow, he looks so much like his mother."

Erik's eyes shot to his "You said you had never seen him."

"No, I said that I had never _met_ him. I have seen him once…from a safe distance, of course."

Erik groaned and cradled his exhausted head in his hands, there were so many similarities between Henry and himself – more than he wanted to admit. Henry was a fool, a fool who had ruined his own life. But in a way Henry was even worse, he had not only ruined his own life, but possibly that of his son as well. And Erik knew all to well of the sting of hatred that came with the abandonment of a parent.

"What if he should find out, that you, his own father, did not want him? You say you have stayed away save him, to keep him good. But what if your rejection, your _abandonment_ is worse? Your own pitiful sacrifice will make him hate you with a black vengeance! And you will unleash another dark soul into the world!"

"I'm sure he is nothing like me!" Henry protested "As much as I hate the man Bella married, I have to admit that he is a good and generous man. I will not ruin my son's life just to gratify myself. It is too late, I am too old, Erik, I'm not young like you. I want rest, not a war…"

Henry looked down at his hands, his own flesh. The blood ran hot underneath the surface. In between his skin and his bone was his blood. This same blood ran in the veins of another, his blood lived inside of another, his son, _his_ son. The only relative he had left in the whole world…his last tie to Bella. For the first time in twenty five years Henry could feel tightness in his chest. He could not put a label to it, was this pain, regret, remorse…fear?

"…and even if I wanted to find him, what would I say? The last I heard he had just become engaged. In a few years I may have a grandchild…could I really just turn up like a banished ghost and ruin his life?"

"He deserves to know the truth, but only you can decide if you can die never having looked your own son in the eye."

"His eyes." Said Henry, resting his wrinkled face in his hands. "Oh, God! What have I done?"

Despite the fury he felt towards the old man, Erik also felt a small amount of pity. Henry had been in denial for twenty five years, and now the truth was unravelling around him at a relentless pace. His leathery skin had lost its colour, and life seemed to be seeping from his very soul.

"Surely a man with your recourses could track him down. It is never too late."

"Oh, I know exactly where he is. We do not need to worry about that detail. But there are other dangers, besides that of finding my son."

"And what dangers are these?"

"Me, Erik, _I _am the danger. I swore that if I ever saw that man again, the one Bella married, that I would kill him! I made a pact with my own black soul that I would shoot him like a dog! He stole my life, and so I must take his!"

Erik gave a sadistic laugh "So, you intend to find your estranged son, look into his eyes, and then shoot the man he has called father for all of his life? I was right, you are a fool!"

Erik stood abruptly and made for the door, incensed by Henry's utter idiocy.

"What else would you have me do?" Henry called after him "I cannot look upon that man's face and wish him well! I cannot, Erik, I will not! I will just have to wait until my son returns from Paris!"

"Paris?" Erik echoed sharply, stopping dead in the doorway.

"Yes, that is where he is, with his new fiancée."

Erik could almost laugh, Paris! Of course it was Paris, the home of so many ghosts and ruined lives. The city should just become one huge graveyard and be done with it! He had been hearing the siren call of home ever since his departure, but he had sworn that he would never return to France. He had exiled himself…

"If you have any other ideas, Erik, please be my guest! But know that I can never go to Paris, not while that man is there!"

Erik was very still, his dark form nearly taking up the entire doorway. Henry had never noticed how tall he was, maybe it was his anger that made him seem suddenly all the more powerful.

"You will not have to," Erik said, turning around slowly.

"What do you mean?"

The masked man's lips twitched up into a smirk. "I will go for you."

oOo

Meg linked arms with her friend as they strode through the sunny boulevards. The glorious autumn sun made bright patches on the tall, white façade's, and shadows dripped down from underneath the ornamental iron balconies. Never before had the contrast between light and dark been so apparent. The warm air passed through the body in waves, setting glowing contentment into the veins.

The girls passed small cafés, and heard fragmented conversations of jaunty Parisians who crowded around small tables. The people laughed, ate and smoked, and aloofly turned their faces up to the pleasant afternoon sun. Many of the women looked up to admire the new parasol Meg held proudly, with its lace detail and ruffled edges - a new gift from Peter.

"Mamman was right, this is just what I needed!" Meg said. "...I'd forgotten how beautiful Paris can be in the sunshine."

Her dark haired companion was silent for a few moments, taking in the scene around them. Her dark eyes followed the busy flow of horse driven traffic, her ears were unconsciously aware of every hoof beat, every cackle of laughter. She knew these noises so well, so much so that she barely noticed them.

"What was London like?" she asked.

"Oh, it's lovely. Not quite as handsome as Paris, but the West End is a delight! And the art galleries are exquisite. But the culture is different, not bad, just…different. I did like it, but I belong in Paris, this is my home."

"I remember travelling with father to London when I was young," Christine said dazedly "But there were so many other places too, I wish I could remember more about them. All I can see are images, I remember London being so, so…"

"Big?" Meg guessed.

"Yes! Big… there were so many faces, but that's all I can remember. But then, I suppose Paris isn't so different." Christine smiled and looked up at the blue sky. "Sometimes, I get this urge, and I just want to pack a bag and leave. Go to all of those places and never look back! I want to see the cultures, and the people, to smell the air of different places. I want to see Venice, Brussels…Russia! Do you ever get these urges, Meg?"

Meg looked at her friend and gave her a remorseful smile.

"Probably not as much as you." She turned her eyes to the pavement. "I'm sure you'll find your wings someday."

"Yes, I'm sure." Christine said, missing the sombre tone in Meg's voice. "But if I had to choose just see one place before I die, it would be Rome."

Meg threw her a quizzical glance "Rome?"

"Yes, something about it calls to me. I would love to go there one day." Her eyes were dancing with excitement.

"You will. I'm sure of it." Meg smiled, this was the happiest she had seen Christine in weeks, here in the sunshine she was just like any other girl. No sadness, no ghosts, no regrets - she seemed so free and contented.

"What?" Christine asked, feeling a sudden pinch of self consciousness.

"Nothing, it's just –well, it's nice to see you smile."

They carried on walking, arm in arm, nearing the street on which their house was located. Christine became aware of a sinking in her stomach, Meg had only been home for a short time, and this was the first time, _the only time_, which they had spent together as friends. She had been too shrouded in her own melancholy, and in the process, neglected her closest friendship.

Christine stopped walking and bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Meg."

Meg turned around in confusion. "What for?"

"For me," Christine said, giving her friend a wry smile "And the black cloud I have been living under. I know how hard this has been for you, and your mother."

Meg was taken aback by the mention of this subject.

"You don't need to apologise. We just worry about you." Meg gave Christine's arm a squeeze. "I wish you would tell me what is wrong."

"I wish I knew."

They walked in silence again. The sun had fallen in the sky, and now hid behind the large buildings. A brittle wind rustled through Christine's hair, and she felt the chill catch in her spine. And she knew then that despite the sun, winter was still on the way.

Meg could see their house in the distance, another ten minutes and they would be home. Back to the roles they had all learned to play so well, Christine would try to smile, and do her best to convince them that all was well. But Meg would be able to see the hollowness in her eyes, but could not say anything. Her mother would coddle Christine, wanting the girl to open up, but also being too afraid to face the revelations that might come.

And Meg would have to pretend that she did not notice any of these things, she would go to dinner with Peter and pretend it was all normal, she would go home and sit at her mothers' side, and pretend that the doctor was a normal gentleman on a social call.

She could not stand it.

This time Meg stopped walking, Christine did also.

Meg needed to know. They so were near to the house and this might be her only chance. Christine had brought the subject up herself, this was the perfect opportunity. It was better for Christine to confide in her, than in some man they did not know. A man they did not know they could trust.

This charade could not carry on.

"Christine, I need to know something."

"What?" Christine's eyes clouded with anxiety.

"I need to know what you remember…from before, from the Opera – anything from before your fall. Can you remember anything?"

Christine's whole body went rigid, her pale skin turning into marble. She closed her eyes. There was something mechanical about her, as if a hidden force governed her every movement. But when she opened her eyes, Meg saw that they were alive, bleeding with unshed tears. And for the first time she saw how tender her friend's hurt was. Christine did not move, and her lips were white and bloodless.

With her one, direct question, Meg had skinned her friend alive.

There was nowhere to hide.

Then, so slowly that Meg thought she had imagined it, Christine began to shake her head, very slowly, from side to side. With a kind of terror that froze Meg's pulse.

"_No…_" Christine mouthed the word. Her voice, too, was lost.

Meg began to nod in reassurance, showing Christine that it was all right, she understood. She put her arms around her, but Christine had turned to stone. Even her hair felt cold.

Christine could not cry, all of her emotions were locked inside a case of granite. But she also felt a fluttering, something was unlocking, falling away, an immense sense of relief.

She was not alone.

She dislodged herself from Meg's arms, shaking slightly.

"I've tried," she said weakly, talking past the painful lump in her throat "But every time I try there is a wall, I feel like I am underwater, and I can see the sun in the sky above me, I am swimming up, trying to taste freedom. And then a stone wall goes over the top, and I am trapped – underground and drowning! And there is nothing, Meg, _nothing can save me_!"

"Ssshh," Meg soothed, stroking Christine's hair "It's all right."

"No, no it's not." Christine writhed away, swallowing the tears that now poured from her eyes.

"There is something else," she said in a hollow voice

"It's alright, you can tell me,"

Christine hesitated, and began to twist her gloved fingers together. Then she spread her hands over her stomach.

"I have this heavy, sickly feeling inside, _here_..." she slid both hands up to her heart. "And _here_. There is a dead weight in my soul, and I do not know what it is! But it is always there, pulling me, dragging me down into the void…And the more I try to pull away, the tighter it grips…Meg…I'm so scared!"

Meg felt her eyes go wide, a sinister sense of déjà vu was overtaking her: Christine had spoken like this once before…

_He's with me even now, all around me… It frightens me…_

But Meg pushed past these thoughts.

"Christine, why did you not say something sooner?"

"I don't know, I was scared, I suppose. It was easier to keep it all inside, because I didn't understand it, I thought it would fade."

"But it hasn't."

"No, and I didn't want to be a burden to your mother. But then it all became too much, I can't control it! I feel like I'm insane, but then another part of me is completely rational! I can't explain it…"

Christine sighed and sat on a small bench at the side of the boulevard. She was staring in the direction of the house. Meg sat down beside her.

"What about Raoul?"

Christine winced painfully, as though Meg had slapped her. Meg sensed that this was one step too far, Christine was not ready to speak of Raoul – or anyone else who might be lurking beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry, Christine. You don't have to -"

"It's all right," Christine said "Perhaps another day, just not now."

Meg nodded, she was about to suggest that they go home and have a nice cup of tea when she remembered the reason that her mother had sent them out in the first place.

The doctor was waiting for them at home.

"Christine, I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"Promise you won't be upset?"

"What is it? Meg, you're scaring me."

Meg bit the inside of her mouth and began to fiddle with her folded down parasol. She knew she had to tell Christine, she could not gain her trust and then loose it all in the space of one afternoon.

"Mamman has been so worried about you. She was so scared that she had lost you forever, you must remember that,"

Christine nodded, a guilty stab hit her heart.

Meg sighed, "She received a letter, a few months ago."

"From a doctor … Monsieur la Claire." Christine said, giving Meg a useless smile.

Meg's eyes widened.

"You knew?"

"I saw the letter he sent a few months ago, I waited for your mother to mention something. But she never did, and I was relived. I thought she had decided against it."

"She did, she did not want to know anything about it…but recently, I don't know, she is so worried, we both are."

"It's all right, Meg. I understand."

"Why didn't you say something?"

Christine gave a small shrug "I don't know, I hoped that if I ignored it, perhaps it would all go away…but it hasn't, it's only gotten worse. I need to know what this memory is, this feeling that will not be banished."

"You're going to let him help you?" Meg could not hide her surprise.

Tears gathered in Christine's eyes again "What choice do I have?"

Meg put her hand over Christine's.

"Shall we go now?"

"Ten minutes," Christine sighed "Just give me another ten minutes."

oOo

_

* * *

__Please let me know what you think!_


	11. When Shadows Remain

_One need not be a chamber to be haunted,  
One need not be a house;  
The brain has corridors surpassing  
Material place.  
Far safer, of a midnight meeting  
External ghost,  
Than an interior confronting  
That whiter host._

Emily Dickinson – One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted.

oOo

_**When Shadows Remain**_

oOo

The large hand of the mantle piece clock made a swift lunge, making the chimes sound four. The sounds echoed around the room, like a large rock falling upon water. The awkward peace returned to the room again, it made its way outwards, and hovered around the senses. Its smothering hands caused a ringing in the ears.

The black-clad woman sipped her tea; the _slurp_ seemed magnified in the condensed quiet of the room. And the clank of the cup and saucer were like the fall of a grand piano from ten floors above. She gave a small, polite smile to the man who sat opposite, but her insides flinched with a muted grimace.

She studied the rug on the floor in front of her, faded greens and soft reds, meeting in harmonious swirls. There were flowers at each corner, she traced the curve of them, and the shapes seemed to turn into faces before her eyes. The faces changed, and morphed, from the silhouette of a young woman, to a gentleman in a top hat. The colours surged together, green and red turning while, and in the place of the young woman was a man, and the soft petals turned into a mask, a gleaming, white, shining mask with two dark eyes, pools of black fire that pulled her inwards…

She yanked her eyes away.

"I cannot imagine where they are." Madame Giry said. "Would you care for some more tea, monsieur?" Mathieu nodded, and she set about refilling his teacup.

Mathieu could feel butterflies tying knots in his stomach. He had had a sleepless night, thinking about this afternoon over and over. The different scenarios, the different ways mademoiselle Daae would react to him, what he would say, what she would say. Would she remember him? He remembered the shock in her face when her name had been said in the café, and her shame. She was hiding something.

But this was a science; he had to keep telling himself that. He needed to deal in fact, not feeling. She was an aid to his studies, a step in the great staircase of his scientific career; nothing more. He needed to stay focused, and pull her brain apart like the threads of a tapestry.

The front door opened, and closed, and shuffling feet could be heard in the hallway.

"We're back!"

Mathieu stood, and so did Madame Giry. She cast him a reassuring glance. He smiled at her nervously and looked at the door. Madame Giry was confused. He had been so confident at their meeting…

The door opened, and Meg stepped into the room, followed by a timid Christine.

"I'm sorry, mamman, we were delayed." Meg's eyes stopped at the well dressed gentleman standing across from her mother, she gave him a small smile, waiting to be introduced.

"Do not fret, you are here now." Madame Giry said mildly. But Meg could sense the displeasure in her voice.

"Monsieur la Claire, this is my daughter, Meg Giry." Meg gave a slight bow of the head, and then shook Mathieu's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle." He said pleasantly.

"And you, monsieur."

Meg stepped aside slightly and Christine came into the centre of the room.

"And this is Christine Daae."

Christine took his hand and gave the warmest smile she could. She wished she was ignorant of his reason for being here; she was playing another role now, the polite girl who smiled, and took afternoon tea with her family and their amiable guest.

She could not help but make an inventory of his whole person. He had very pleasant features, small, bright eyes and full lips. His nose was a prominent attribute to his face, but the relaxed gleam in his eyes seemed to take the focus from it. His tall frame reminded her of something, but she could not say what.

"It is very nice to meet you, monsieur." She said, with a control that surprised even herself.

"A pleasure, mademoiselle." He said, shifting slightly under her intense gaze.

"Shall we sit?" said Madame Giry.

And so the small party arranged themselves around the sitting room. Mathieu and Madame Giry returned to their chairs, and Christine and Meg shared the divan. Meg and Mathieu began to talk politely of the weather, and how remarkable it was for this time of year. Madame Giry handed out small sandwiches, and nodded along with the conversation.

Christine did not want a sandwich, and she did not want to talk. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She was going to have to tell this man all about herself, about what she thought and what she felt. She would have to try and divulge the secrets she did not remember, she would have to lay her soul out on the floor, in pieces, and allow this stranger to put it back together.

Everyone else could talk genially of the weather, and eat sandwiches with the crusts cleanly sliced off. But she was the only one that had to be prodded and probed. As though she were the convict of a guilty crime, she would have to confess her dark sins, and let this man cleanse her wounded soul. Let him be the glorious hero that saved a wounded girl! But she wanted to hide; she did not want to let anybody in.

"Yes, I agree, what do you think Christine?"

"Hmm?" Christine blinked and tried to make the room come back into focus. Three blank faces were staring back at her.

"I was just saying," said Meg, giving her a wide eyed stare, "that the Boulevard Voltaire was very overcrowded, and monsieur la Claire said that the sun seems to bring everyone out of hiding. Would you agree?"

"Yes, most definitely." Christine said, she cast Meg a grateful smile. "I should imagine the Bois de Boulogne is particularly busy."

"Do you enjoy visiting the Bois de Boulogne?" Mathieu asked innocently.

"Yes, I suppose, as much as anybody else." Christine said, wary of his question. She felt a sudden need to remain in control of all conversation.

Mathieu felt hot sweat beneath his collar; she seemed suspicious of him already. Fantastic, he thought - this was not a promising start.

"Yes, we enjoy a walk in the Jardin d'Acclimatation," said Meg, trying to keep the conversation at a steady momentum. "On a sunny day there is nothing so beautiful; the zoological gardens are a particular favorite of mine."

"I have never been a follower of zoology," said Mathieu. "I would much prefer to see animals in the wild; I think everything has the right to freedom. There is something so unnatural about life in a cage."

Christine could feel Meg and Madame Giry exchange an intense stare, and something about his comment unnerved her. She could feel a tremor in her soul, and a sticky feeling lodged itself in her heart. It made her feel a sad anger, remorse for something she did not know. Pity…yes, it was pity she felt. But did not know what for; was it the thought of something being locked in a cage? Or was it for herself?

Mathieu was watching Christine, her thick lashes hovered slightly, and she looked at the floor. He felt a strange elation that his words were already making an impact. He had chosen the words carefully. Cage, prison, darkness – probing words to make her think about the life she had locked away. The memories were there, this much was clear.

Perhaps this was going to be easier than he thought.

"I suppose," said Meg, oblivious, "but then, surely for us to learn about a species, we need to study it closely. We will never learn anything by simply watching from afar. I found London Zoo very interesting. Have you been there, monsieur?"

"No, unfortunately not, but I have been to London itself on many occasions. But I do agree, we only learn about a subject by observing it closely, what do you think, mademoiselle Daae?"

Christine studied his face for a few moments. This conversation was suffocating her, and she felt an insatiable need for fresh air. She did not want to play games, she did not want make-believe, she had forced her head out of the sand, and now she wanted reality. She would not trade one prison for another.

"I would say that sometimes observation is necessary." She said calmly "But I can also imagine that being watched causes a species to act differently. Something will only behave naturally when in its own surroundings. Too much observation can suppress the senses."

Mathieu nodded. She was a clever girl, and she spoke of observation as though it were a sixth sense. Her movements, little as he had seen, seemed almost rehearsed, practised beyond control. She was doing more than playing a part, she had become the character. She knew this role better than she knew herself; it had slowly become her reality.

"All this talk of observation is making me weary," said Madame Giry, trying to lighten the mood. "Would anyone care for sweets?"

Meg and Mathieu nodded, but Christine would not take her gaze from the doctor. She held his eyes, determined and angry. No more leading questions, she thought, he had clearly come here for a reason. Everyone knew it, and yet they all continued to prance and hover around this flowery, easy conversation. All too scared to face the real reason for his visit. And she was the most afraid of all, but the time for hiding was at an end.

"What _is_ it that you do, monsieur la Claire? I don't think you have mentioned it." she said, her tone acidly polite.

"I am a doctor." He said, smiling.

"A surgeon?"

"No, I treat the mind, mademoiselle, and the senses."

She smiled mildly, the truth was out now. No more pretence.

She felt sick.

"I see. And what is it that brings you here? I thought doctors would be to busy to indulge in such _inconsequential_ activities like afternoon tea."

"Christine!" gasped Madame Giry. She had never heard the girl speak with such a sour tongue.

"Well, I was only wondering the reason for monsieur la Claire's visit. Surely there must be a purpose to it."

She looked at the doctor. The air in the room felt stagnant. But she also felt a sense of relief, a sense of control. She had forced the confrontation they meant to bring upon her. She wanted this all to be over. Their pretence had more laces and frills than a New Years Eve masquerade ball.

Mathieu struggled for words, an explanation…anything. He was in danger of loosing everything. Everything that Ambrose had discovered would be lost, all his research gone to waste.

"My dear," Madame Giry began "It was I who asked monsieur la Claire to come here this afternoon."

"Why?" the young girl asked, tears in her voice. She needed to hear the words said aloud. Only then would this all be real.

Madame Giry sighed. "It is no secret that you have been…_distressed_ lately, my dear. I thought that perhaps you might talk to him. I believe he may be able to help you."

Christine looked up at her adopted mother, and saw the fear in the older woman's face. Her anger melted away, and was replaced by a stinging guilt.

"You could have told me…" Christine said in a cracked whisper.

Madame Giry knelt down beside her, and placed a reassuring hand on Christine's knee.

"I wanted to, child. And I apologise for my deception. It was never my intention to wound your trust. Perhaps I did not handle it correctly."

"No, no it's all right." Christine said, biting her lip. "This is all me, I have made this mess, madame Giry. I know you were only trying to help. I need to face this … whatever it is."

She gave the older woman a crooked smile. "I only wish that I didn't have to."

"It's all right, mademoiselle Daae." Mathieu interrupted "I understand; we can take this as slowly as you wish."

Christine looked at him; hurt rage was seeping into her lungs again. It was hard to breathe. How could he know? Her past was a mystery to her, wounded flesh covered with a thick layer of scab. And he was going to make her pick it, worse; he wanted to pick it himself. He wanted to make her bleed.

"How?" She asked; feeling appalled. "How can you know? _I _don't even know!" she could feel her anger rising, but she could not make herself calm down. Every fragment of anger she had ever felt was boiling away inside, manifesting into one huge sob.

She was angry with him, for his assumptions. She was angry with Madame Giry for lying to her...but most of all, she was angry with herself.

"What do you want from me? Would have me open my heart and scatter the debris on the floor? So you can pick it up and give it back to me as a whole! So it will all appear to be all right. You will take my insides, and turn them inside out. And to the entire world I will be the same, I will be cured! You can fix a label to me, and I will be just like any other face in the crowd. But what if you cannot cure me? What if nobody can?"

The room was silent. In the midst of her outburst Christine had risen from the divan and was now standing by the door. But she could not remember how she had gotten there.

Mathieu was staring at her; his eyes were paralysed, fixed to the deep amber of her stare.

"I'm sorry, I can't do this," she sobbed "Please excuse me."

Her hand was on the door, the cold handle in her grasp. She had only to turn it, and run, and she would be free…

"Please, Christine." Mathieu said, standing.

His use of her first name caused her to stop. She held the door handle in both hands, her back turned to the rest of the room.

"You have to give this a chance. You have to give _me_ a chance."

Christine closed her eyes, the tears fell. She did not want to listen; the music was creeping back into her mind, pulling her slowly back. And the temptation to follow it was very strong, it was beautiful, it was alive, it lived inside her soul. She loved it.

But she also wanted freedom, she wanted to remember, to live again…and this time the lure of fresh, free air seemed stronger than the music. If she could make herself free, liberate her own soul, and then still hear the music, she would know it was real. And it would be under her control.

The music began to fade, gathering inside a small place in her heart. Mathieu's voice was clearer to her, reality was alive, and she let the fantasy fade.

"I know you think that I don't understand, and you're right. I probably don't understand it all. But I can help you, I know I can… I can help you, Christine. All you have to do is trust me."

She turned to face him, resting her back against the door.

"That's just it; I don't know if I can."

"Could you try?" he asked, moving around the chair to stand a bit closer to her.

Christine wiped the tears from her eyes, she bit her bottom lip.

"I, I suppose."

"Then that's all we need for now. Sometimes, all you need is a bit if faith."

She gave him a quizzical stare.

"I didn't think that doctors believed in faith? Only science."

"Perhaps not," he said with a slight chuckle. "But I am also a man, Christine. And all men need to have faith…even the more cynical ones."

There was something warm and reassuring about the smile he gave her. And she felt lighter, perhaps she could have faith. Perhaps she could trust him.

"I would want to take it very slowly." She said.

"Of course; as slowly as you wish"

"And, perhaps we can meet in the park to talk, in the fresh air."

"Very well," He said.

Slowly, the faces of Meg and Madame Giry came back into focus, the world seemed real again. And Christine allowed her breathing to level. In truth, she did not know what she was doing. She did not know if this was wisdom or insanity. All she knew was that she wanted to be herself again, she wanted control, and she wanted to be alive.

"All right," she said, trying to lift her mouth into a smile. "...perhaps I can have faith."

oOo

The _Rue de Bellevue_ rested in a suburb at the southern tip of Paris. The sky was tinted with the violet blush of early morning, the passive colours melted together, pink swirls danced through the purple shades, mixing together in a watery palate. The whole place looked to be returning from a dream. Patches of lilac light played upon the façades, driving grey shadows back to their realm of darkness.

The buildings shone with a deathly hue, and flecks of daylight tried to melt the mist around them. Rats and alley cats prowled in the dark corners, as their nocturnal conflict came to an end.

A solitary hansom cab trundled down the serpentine streets. The hoof beats and creaking wheels disrupted the choking stillness. Somewhere in the distance two cats shrieked and wailed, followed by a clatter of falling rubbish.

"We're here, monsieur," said the driver.

"My thanks," said the solitary occupant. He opened the door and stepped into the shadowed street.

"Are you sure this is the place?" said the driver, looking up at the old building.

Erik looked up at building, he had instructed the driver to come around the back. The front of the building was a bar that had recently closed down. Henry had paid the previous occupant a lot of money to leave. Allegedly the man had refused at first, but then certain things had happened that had made him very eager to escape Paris. Henry had told Erik that there was no danger of the man returning, the rooms above were now vacant.

"Yes, this is it."

Erik paid the driver, the small man gave him a thankful nod, and the cab trotted off into the murky streets.

Erik continued to stand in the street, trying to adjust to the strange sensations that now stirred within. With each step of his journey back to Paris, he had been aware of something growing. Something that he had thought was dead. It had started off as a small bud, nurtured by the tiny light in his soul. Then the branches had grown through his veins and pierced their way into his heart. And he was left with an overwhelming sense of need.

It had always been a risk to come back to Paris, back to the scene of his demise. But he had been lured by the habit he could not shake. He had not expected the force to be so swift, so painful. He felt like a freshly grazed wound, which could begin bleeding again at any moment.

Erik tightened his jaw and straightened, the scowl lanced through his body.

He hardened himself, made his heart an iron bolt that could not be crushed by the pain. He had to remain focused. He would not follow any paths that might lead to _her_. He could not see her. It would mean his end if he did.

But he could not silence those voices, those twittering, muttering whispers that were acid in his ears. _Christine is not married, Christine is not married…_

_Christine is not married…_

He fought against the sounds, against the agonising pleasure of hearing her name in limbo.

He had to remain focused. First he would find Henry's son, and then there would be time for his own past.

Then he would be strong enough; then he would be ready…and not a moment before.

He picked up his bags, and made his way into the building. He was feeling weary, and tonight he needed all the rest he could get.

Tomorrow he would begin his search for Edgar Lockhart

oOo

* * *

_Please let me know what you think, guys! And if anyone is good at editing, and fancies helping me out with this story, send a PM to my inbox! The chapters are going to be getting longer and I could use the help!_

_And huge thanks for all the reviews/feedback for the last chapter! _


	12. An Angel's Solace

AN: I just wanted to say huge thanks to Goth Angel UK for the help with this chapter!

* * *

_It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame._

_And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly._

_As for you--you'd forget me__._

Charlotte Bronte – Jane Eyre

oOo

_**An Angel's Solace**_

oOo

The sunny weather had passed and the sky was now a jigsaw of matted grey clouds. The dim ceiling hovered, and moved, and rumbled. It was dense and dreary- a shield separating the heavens from the din of mortality.

Christine waited on a small bench in the east side of the Bois de Boulogne. Her gloved hands were clasped neatly in front of her. Her dark eyes took in her surroundings. This was her favourite view in the whole of the Bois - the bench sat opposite a lake and gave the occupant a splendid view of the sharp, glassy water and the small crowds of locust, oak and cherry trees. In the summer months these trees would decorate the park with deep shades of fertile green and the whole place would be alive and breathing. But now the trees stood bony and unmoving, bereft of vegetation. Christine tried to imagine them with their leaves, bringing them to life in her mind, chasing the winter away with the rays of a violent summer. It was calming and strangely soothing, and she enjoyed the feel of bringing the comatose foliage back to its natural, flourishing state.

She loved this bench not only for the view, but for the strange dedication that was scratched into the surface. It read:

**- Je vous tiendrai dans l'obscurité -**

Christine traced the grooves with her finger, repeating the words in her mind. _I will hold you in the darkness..._

The words had been here for many years, she could tell by the way time had softened the edges and smoothed the words into the surface. The words had become one with the object that held them; they had become the surface, the skin. The person who had written them was probably long dead, and Christine felt a chilling wonder pass through her veins, a ghostly sense of nostalgia.

Her nerves were twitching. This was her second meeting alone with doctor la Claire; the first one had been brief and very informal. They had met in the park a week before. Nothing was said of the opera, of Raoul, or of the past, and Christine was grateful that they had left these subjects alone. Mathieu had done most of the talking, telling Christine about his life and his childhood. He seemed to have a very open and kind nature, and she found herself to be enjoying his company. It was easy to listen and talk to him. Perhaps, she thought, it was because he knew nothing of her or her life; everyone around her seemed to know too much about it. It was easy to be in Mathieu's company because he did not know these things, but of course, that was all about to change.

Mathieu lived in Amiens, and had enjoyed a happy childhood. His father was a successful stone mason, and it had always been understood that Mathieu would follow in his footsteps and carry on the proud family lineage. Tradition, Mathieu had explained, was very important to his father.

But as he was growing up, Mathieu became more and more fascinated by people and science. He had followed the career of Théodule Ribot, a man whose ideas about the human mind were a source of fascination to Mathieu, and who quickly became an idol to him. When he found that similar ideas were being practised in Germany and England, his interest grew, especially in the development of the human mind and personality.

But it was a chance meeting in Paris, with the mysterious Ambrose Gaudin, that had changed Mathieu's life. Ambrose had been a believer in psychology all of his life, but before the formation of the Third Republic, many had been suspicious of his ideals. However, a new era brought with it a new way of thinking, and after the war Ambrose had put his ideas into practice, helping those ravaged by the effects of the conflicts. When Mathieu had met Ambrose it had been a meeting of minds, and Ambrose had taken Mathieu under his wing, teaching him all he knew. And the pair had been in constant correspondence ever since.

It had broken his parents' heart when Mathieu had announced that he would not be following the same path as the previous generations. His father had threatened to disown him, and his mother had been a weeping mess for days. She'd locked herself away in her room, and claimed that her nerves were in tatters, she did not know what they had done to deserve such a disobedient son!

But sometimes, Mathieu had said, we must break the hearts of those closest to us to find out who we really are.

Christine felt better for knowing some things about him; he was no longer the mysterious doctor intent on pulling her soul from her body. He was a person himself, with feelings and a past. It was nice to think of him as a man, and not the unfeeling scientist she had built him up to be.

But today would be different, Christine knew it. Today he would begin to sift his way through the dark mess of her memory and the fragile sense of equality they had found would be gone.

Suddenly, she could feel a cool sprinkling on her skin, so she looked up. The gloomy mass in the sky was moving again, squeezing rain out into the atmosphere. Christine made an embarrassingly feminine squeal, gathered up her skirts and ran for the shelter of a neighbouring cluster of trees.

"Christine!" shouted a tall figure running towards her, using a folded up newspaper to shelter his head from rain.

Christine felt a dizzy green haze take over her eyes and for a light-headed moment she thought it was Raoul running towards her. The thought caused her to smile.

But then reality slapped her - it was Mathieu, not Raoul. The smile melted away from her face but she tried not to let her disappointment show; she looked at him as brightly as she could.

"We should get out of the rain," Mathieu said when he reached her. "Come, there is a café just outside of the entrance… Here, take this." He handed the paper to her, Christine smiled in thanks and held it above her head.

They walked briskly along the many paths and Christine tried her best to tiptoe in between the newly formed puddles. Without warning the rain hardened its assault and Christine had to run to keep up with Mathieu's large strides. He turned around and saw her struggle, and Christine was shocked when he grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him.

Before long they were out of the Bois, and in the busy boulevard. People seemed to be everywhere, panicking and rushing as though war had just been declared. Christine found it strange that a small rainstorm could cause such frenzied panic. Soon they were heading straight for the door of a small café. Between being pulled along by Mathieu and the rain marring her vision, Christine was unable to see the name of the establishment.

Once inside, they looked around for somewhere to sit. Christine wiped the rain from her dress with her free hand. Mathieu still held onto her other one and it wasn't until she began to gently prize herself from his grip that he let go.

"Ah, there is a table over there," he said, pointing to the corner of the café. "After you..."

Christine made her way to the empty booth in the corner. She grimaced slightly; she would rather be in the middle of the room, amongst the crowd. There was something claustrophobic about that solitary booth; she would be pinned into the corner like a trapped animal. She found herself yearning for the freedom of the anonymous masses.

They sat and Mathieu ordered a pot of tea. Christine declined the offer of a pastry. She would surely be sick if she tried to eat.

"So, tell me about the Vicomte de Chagny," Mathieu said, when the tea had arrived.

A wave of pale shock hit Christine's face, and hovered there as she felt a cool heat prickle all the way across her neck and arms.

"I thought we had agreed to take this slowly," she said when she could talk.

"We are. I just want you to tell me about him, you can tell me as much or as little as you like."

Christine sipped her tea; the scorching liquid stung her lips. She kept her gaze on the small floral sugar bowl in front of her. There was a stab of irrational anger in her heart. This had been his plan all along! He had lured her in with security and polite conversation, using the subject of his own past as bait, to gain her confidence and trust. Then he had put out his foot to trip her up when she least expected it. She felt at once both embarrassed and outraged. He had gone straight for her Achilles heel - Raoul, the boy she could not marry, the childhood friend she would never see again.

"What is it that you want to know?" she asked quietly.

"Whatever you wish to tell me."

Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"He is a good man. I have nothing ill to say of him, he is the best person I know."

"How did you meet him?" Mathieu asked, sitting forward and leaning on one elbow.

"Must we talk about Raoul?" she pleaded, her throat constricting with dread.

"Christine, I would not ask if it wasn't necessary. I would never cause you intentional pain…" his sincere eyes made her blush slightly. "We need to speak of this, it is important. And you promised to give me a chance."

Christine sighed, and ran her finger along the rim of her teacup. She had promised, but she was beginning to wish she hadn't.

"He was a friend of mine, I first knew him when I was very young. He was the beautiful blond-haired boy who retrieved my scarf from the sea, the boy I shared stories with about the places beyond our dreams. He was the boy I loved as a girl," she looked Mathieu straight in the eye, "and the man I killed as a woman."

Mathieu began to rub his chin.

"What do you mean 'killed'?"

"I could not love him." she said flatly. "I _loved_ him, in more ways than I can say. But in the end, I was not in love with him. It was not enough."

"You were not happy?"

"Yes, I was… for a time. But Raoul is my best friend, Monsieur la Claire, and I could not stay with him just because there was a chance that we _might _have been happy. I loved him too much to put him through that." She gave him a sad smile. "At least in the end I loved him enough to do one kind thing."

"Were you not engaged at one point?"

"Yes."

"Then at some stage you must have believed you could marry him and be happy."

"Yes," Christine said quietly, her eyebrows jutted together. "I did."

"Then something must have happened to make you change your mind. What changed, Christine?"

Christine began to rub her forehead, and it was hard to breathe. The hot air of the café was causing her senses to asphyxiate.

"I – I don't know…I was scared, I suppose."

"Of married life?"

"No... I'm not sure...I was trapped, I didn't know what to do …"

"About what?"

"I'm not sure..."

"Was it because marrying him would have meant giving up your life at the opera?"

"No, of course not, I wanted to marry him…"

"Then what changed?"

"I don't know!" she slammed her small fist down on the table, frustrated and exhausted. "I don't know!"

The occupants of the next table turned and gave them a disapproving stare. Mathieu smiled politely. Evidently this had not been the best place to conduct their meeting.

Mathieu could see that Christine was beginning to panic. Her pupils had gone wide and her breathing was laboured. He rested his hand over hers.

"Christine, look at me." Her wide, frenzied eyes found his. "It's all right. We can leave it there for today…"

She pulled her hand out from beneath his. Mathieu tried not to look hurt.

"Please, Christine, listen to me."

She looked at him, trying desperately to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes. Mathieu's voice was calm and low.

"You have done really well today, but I don't want to push you too hard. We will leave it there for now."

Christine was trying to level her breathing, and slowly began to feel in control of her functions.

"I would like some air," she said.

"Of course," said Mathieu. "Let me walk you home."

"No," she said quickly. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I think I need some time alone. I will see you tomorrow."

She scooted along the booth and ran to the café door, out into the street. Mathieu was after her in a second.

"Christine!" he called.

She turned around and the chilly wind blew her curls into her face.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" he came to stand a bit closer to her.

"Yes. I'll be fine, I promise. I need to think about a few things."

It was a lie, she was not fine, but she wanted desperately to be alone. She tried to hide her unease with a smile. "Shall I meet you at the bench again tomorrow?"

"Yes, at the same time," Mathieu said, but he did not seem to be convinced.

"Very well. Good day, Monsieur. And thank you."

"Christine, please. Call me Mathieu. We can do without all of these genteel formalities."

His small attempt at humour lightened her mood slightly.

"All right then, thank you, _Mathieu_. I hope you have a pleasant evening." She smiled at him. He smiled back and gave her a friendly nod.

"And you too, Christine. Goodbye."

Christine turned and began to walk away. Mathieu stood alone and watched her departing figure, cursing inwardly.

He had promised himself he would not feel this way.

oOo

Erik sneered contemptuously at the smartly dressed gentleman that stood in front of him. He stared at the man's appearance - the smooth dark hair, the top hat, the brightly polished shoes, all in coordinating shades of brown. He had always preferred black, the colour of his soul. But there was nothing dark about this fashion; it was calm, reserved and polite. All of the things Erik knew he was not.

He frowned, and the man frowned back. Disgusted, he turned away from the mirror and threw the hat on the floor. Henry was right, even a murderer could look like a gentleman in the right clothes. Erik realised that dressed like this he looked almost normal, just like every other bourgeois twit in the street! Were it not for his face he would surely blend right in.

He had had a whole wardrobe made up on his return to Paris. A creature stalking the streets clad in a black cloak and mask would surely demand attention. And attention was something he did not need. He needed to be inconspicuous and invisible. The Phantom had dressed in black, _Erik_ would dress in dark brown and stormy grey. It was only a small variation, but a change nonetheless.

He fixed his new mask into place; it was cut to fit around the exact shape of his scars. He had used the lightest shade of brown he could find, it did not look like skin, but it was more human than a mask of shining white and under the shadow of his hat it looked almost natural. It made the transition between his real face and the mask less severe.

He gave his reflection one final, scornful appraisal, and then took up his walking cane and strode out of the room.

He had been following Edgar Lockhart for the better part of a week. Erik had built up a picture in his head of what the man who had married Isabella would be like. He had envisioned a golden-haired Romeo with a bright smile and shining eyes. What he had found was quite the opposite - the man was of a thin frame, with features that were friendly, but not necessarily handsome. In fact, Edgar had the look of a man that had never been handsome.

Erik found following Edgar to be a tedious exercise - the man seemed to do the exact same thing everyday. He would take a walk in the morning, followed by a pot of tea in a quaint café near to his house. In the afternoon, he would attend a meeting in the centre of the city, and in the evening he would meet friends for dinner in one of the finest restaurants. There had been no trace of his son, or of any unusual behaviour and Erik was already loosing interest in his self-appointed mission.

As he strode down through the boulevards, he cast a critical eye on the smart gentlemen that passed him. They would nod at each other and exchange pleasantries. Some carried newspapers and others would be playing escort to pretty young ladies dressed in the finest lace and silk. They were all members of their own elite club, and gave each other a secret look of mutual appreciation.

One passing man looked Erik straight in the eye. Erik felt his heart lurch. Nobody ever looked at him. Nobody could see a ghost. Did this man recognise him? Could he tell that it was a murderer that walked among them? If this man had guessed his identity, it would all be over. He might as well put his own neck through the hangman's noose.

But the man simply tipped his hat and said "Bonjour," as he passed.

Erik gave a stiff nod in response, but his insides were stinging with shock. It was only when he caught his reflection in a shop window, that he remembered how he was dressed. His reflection did not stand out amongst all of the other top hats and walking canes. There was no ghost with a lasso in his hands, no dead bodies or shrieking ballet rats. He did not stand out at all, worse, he fitted right in. He was one of them now, even if it was only on the outside.

Erik hailed a hansom cab, finding the streets too claustrophobic. He gave the driver directions and then sat back and stared out of the window. He could not contain his smirk when it began to rain and all of the pristine suits and dresses became sodden and dirty. The people scurried away into shop fronts and cafés, and young ladies held their skirts out of the puddles. He found it amazing that a little fall of rain could cause such hysteria, and conceded that his timing in hailing a cab had been absolutely perfect.

He watched as a round, plump woman slipped on the soaking pavement. She skidded along the boulevard for about half a metre and then fell promptly onto her bottom, leaving a trail of scattered parcels and packages in her wake. A few gentlemen ran to her aid and helped her to her feet. Some of the young ladies tittered and giggled behind their elegantly gloved fingers.

Erik sniggered - it was like watching a parody scene at the opera and he half expected to hear the orchestra, followed by a round of rapturous applause. He turned his attention to the other side of the street. The amusement froze in his face, and then dissolved away. His gaze became fixed on one figure in the street. A small, dark-haired girl was bouncing along the wet pavements, avoiding the puddles just like everyone else. His blood ran dry, his lungs surged together and ice formed in the very pores of his skin.

She was there, it was her, and the moment seemed to belong to another lifetime. He was no longer in the cab, he was somewhere else entirely. The noise of the rain and the hubbub of the street were an irritating distraction. Every rational part of him was frozen. He tried to blink, to make this illusion fade away, but his eyes would not obey. They were stuck to her, to her every movement. The rest of the crowd seemed to rush, and run, and bang into one another. But she was floating, everything else was a dream, she was real.

It was really her, the only real person in the world…Christine…his Christine…

…hand in hand with another man.

Red spots danced before his eyes, and anger trembled at the bottom of his spine. Thick, black jealousy welled up within him. His past had found him, and he could not turn away.

Who was that man? The man who dragged her through the streets as though she belonged to him?

There was something disgustingly familiar about the look on her lovely face, she looked panicked and confused.

He knew that look.

It was the look she had worn when an evil monster had tried to pull her down, forcing her away from her sanity and her will, pulling her down into the tunnels of his darkness and madness…away from the world and all of its light!

He forced the memory from his mind.

This wasn't happening, it was a sick trick of the eye. He had been avoiding any paths that might lead to her, and now _she_ had found him, in this strange, unguarded moment.

Erik had accepted that she might marry le Vicomte. _He_ had allowed her to leave with the boy…she had _wanted_ to be with the boy!

But the boy had married someone else, and now she was holding the hand of another man, making a mockery of everything he had sacrificed!

His narrowed eyes watched as her companion pulled her into a small café on the other side of the street.

Edgar Lockhart could be damned!

"Stop here!" Erik yelled to the driver. "There has been a change of plan."

oOo

Christine walked briskly; the rain had stopped, leaving a mess of mud and soggy leaves. The air was clean and she could almost taste the vitalising aroma of newness.

She breathed it in, hoping that the cleansing smell would wash the rusty chains off her mind. Speaking to Mathieu about Raoul had been more painful than she could have ever imagined. It had made her pain so real, so palpable.

She could see every moment of her time with Raoul, and her mind made her relive every painful moment again and again. She remembered the way they had laughed as children, the fear in his eyes when she had shared the dark tales her father had told her. She could tell he had been afraid, even though he had insisted that there was no such thing as ghosts.

And then years later, when they had found each other again, she could see the joy in his face when she had agreed to marry him … and then the grief in his eyes as they had parted for the last time.

She had been little more than a living ghost at the time, and had not digested the fact that she would never see him again; she had not absorbed the notion that he was going to marry someone else. She had said that she did not remember him, that she did not care. She had done it to push him away - to save him, but now these thoughts were worse than a taste of the bitterest poison, because she could not take any of it back. She could not tell him that she was sorry.

She looked up, feeling bewildered and slightly disoriented, but then she caught sight of the _Eglise Saint-Louis en l'Ile _and remembered were she was. The church looked so peaceful, and there was something magnificent about the way it stood out amongst all of the other buildings, it seemed to be alone, beautiful, but somehow adrift.

‎The sight of it also made her think of her father. Her thoughts of late had been so dark and morbid that she had not paid a visit to his grave, or lit a candle to honour his memory. A chilly wind rustled through her skirts and, following a need she could not describe, she found herself wandering towards the old monument.

She felt a desperate yearning to be safe, to be consoled by the mysterious force of her father's guidance.

oOo

Erik walked behind at a safe distance. He could not believe that he was doing this again, cheating her out of her freedom. Stalking her the way a lion would hunt for its prey. He did not know what he would do if she suddenly turned around and saw him. He hadn't gotten that far, there had been no room for rational thought when he had began his relentless pursuit of her. Just like all of the other times.

He had waited outside the café, he had purchased a copy of _Le Violon_ and sat on a nearby bench, but his eyes hadn't read a single line of the publication. His piercing gaze had been aimed at all times at the door of the small café.

Christine emerged from the café sometime later; she looked distressed, and did not seem to take any comfort in the young man that had escorted her inside. In fact, there was nothing intimate about the way they conversed. It was friendly and polite, but Christine seemed very detached. It was more like watching two businessmen seal a deal, than two young lovers parting ways.

The relief Erik felt was indescribable, and he knew then that he needed to leave; he had to leave her alone. She was free now, he could not follow her...

Moments later he was following her across the city. He would just make sure she arrived home safely, then he would leave. He would not speak with her, he would simply reassure himself that she was all right, and then he would turn away and never follow her again. She would never know that he had been there, and no harm would be done.

He hid as she approached the church, and watched as she pulled at the large door. How fitting, he mused, that an angel should seek refuge in the house of God.

He waited for a few moments, and then made his way across the street.

The door creaked slightly as he opened it, but he closed it noiselessly behind him. He stepped into the shadows. Just one look, he said to himself, just one closer look at her perfect, darling face and then he would leave.

She would be safe in here, he knew that, but he couldn't leave without seeing her.

"Can I help you, my son?" said an archaic voice from behind him.

Erik turned his face slightly and glanced at the man. A priest, _excellent_, he thought, this was all he needed. This stupid old fool would ruin everything, he would alert Christine to his presence, and she would scream. She would think the worst of him, and cry, and the _gendarmes_ would come. And then it really would be over forever.

He hadn't meant any harm, but she would not see it that way!

He stepped back slightly, allowing the shadows to veil his face. He looked at the priest, and then to the large sackcloth robe the man was wearing.

"Yes," he smirked. "Perhaps you can."

oOo

Christine lit the candle and watched as the weak flame shook and quivered before rising proudly to life.

"I miss you…" she whispered to the air, letting the tears fall down her cheeks.

She thought of all the people who had left her life - her mother, her father…and now Raoul. People always seemed to leave but nobody ever came back. She picked the candle up and held it against another one, a light for the memory of her mother. And then she held it to a third one…a light for Raoul, the boy who held her hand and told her stories.

"People always leave," she said sadly.

It was not enough to have strong people around you, she thought, you must be strong for yourself. That was where she had been going wrong, she did not know herself. And she needed herself; she was the only person that could never leave…

She felt the air change, and the candles shook.

She turned around.

oOo

Erik remained in the shadow, dressed in the brown robe of the priest. He had only rendered the old man unconscious, and he was certain that the ancient relic could awaken at any time. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he knew he didn't have much time. However, now as he stood in a dark corner, he seemed to lose his nerve. He had acted on that primal, desperate urge he always felt in her presence. There had been no room for thought. The desire to be alone with her again had been too great, to be in her soft company for one last, glorious moment.

She was crying and he could not bear the sound of her sobs, he wanted to soothe her, to be a comfort to her aching soul…

The thought caused him to let out a painful sigh. She dropped the candle she had been holding and whirled around.

"Is anyone there?" she called out softly, hopefully.

There was a long silence, and even the candles seemed to quake in apprehension. She bowed her head again. _There was nobody there_, why had she thought there would be anyone there? Angels were invisible; even if there was one there, she would not be given the gift to see it. Nobody gets to meet an angel. Why was it then that she was sure she had seen one before, maybe in her dreams…perhaps in her nightmares…

"My child," a melodic voice cooed from behind her. She looked up to see the hooded priest walking towards her gracefully. He crossed himself at the altar and knelt down languidly, just out of her reach.

"What troubles you, my dear?" he asked, head bowed.

"I wish I knew…" she sobbed.

"Come now, tell me. I will pass no judgement." He kept his voice low and subdued, in a lethargic tone he himself did not recognise.

She was silent for a few moments, contemplating his words.

"I have this ache, Father, in my soul. And I want desperately to be free of it…I want to be free."

The priest was silent.

"You are free, my child, we are all free. All of those who believe in God are free."

"But I'm not free, I am tied to something…I can't see it, or touch it, but I am eternally bound by it. I can feel it, every moment of every day, it is like an iron fist, pulling me down…always down." Her voice was ragged and desperate.

"You are free; _sacrifices _were made to ensure your freedom." There was sorrow in his voice mixed with a kind of muted fury. He took a few moments before speaking again.

"Is it your suitor? You can tell me, child, I will not judge, there are only feelings here. No judgements." _His_ feelings were threatening to spill over. This was a mistake. A very big mistake, he should have stayed away. He should have left the moment he saw her.

"I have no suitor," came her simple reply. "There was a time when I did have one, someone who loved me. But I let him go. Now I am alone."

"You will _never_ be alone," he said, too quickly. "You should be told every day just how special you are…"

She turned to look at him, feeling suddenly soothed by his voice and his presence, it was comfortable, almost familiar. She edged forward slightly, to try and see his face under the hood. He moved his head down and crossed himself, then he kissed the rosary that was entwined in his fingers.

"Father, have we spoken before? Your voice seems so…" she felt her eyes begin to close as she allowed his voice to seep into her mind. It was like euphoria…

"No, we have not, my child. I have never seen your face before. And you have never seen mine." Her eyes snapped open at his words. She felt stupid for even considering such a thing.

His mind was in turmoil. _No suitor! _He could not let himself think about what that meant. It was too dangerous; it was far too dangerous a notion.

He felt sick, filthy and ashamed. She was still scared, and she still felt trapped, all because of him. He had ruined her life, and now he had come back for more. He had needed to fill his greedy heart with the sight of her!

He had not given her freedom; it was a prison sentence, which he chose to intrude upon again and again. The only way to free her properly was to let her go forever.

"All of God's children are special; always remember that. There are people out there who love you, sweet child … more than you will ever know."

Christine felt her mind begin to churn; something was there, just beyond her grasp and she tried to reach out…she could almost touch it…

"I will leave you to your prayers," The priest said swiftly.

"No, wait!" she said, whirling around, but she was alone once again. He seemed to have disappeared into thin air. She could hear no fleeing footsteps and there was no dispersing shadow.

There was nothing. It was as if she had been alone the whole time.

Perhaps God had sent her an angel after all.

oOo


	13. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

_The wolf changes only his coat -- not his character._

- Proverb

oOo

_**A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing**_

oOo

Erik strode along the _Place du Louvre__,_ staring at the ornate museum façade with silent approval. The grand building still held the striking majesty of the palace that it had once been. It stretched itself along the boulevard with a proud arrogance, hailing its own superiority amongst the more reserved and modest buildings that surrounded it.

He walked down the _rue de Rivoli_ and entered the building through the side entrance, just as Edgar Lockhart had done five minutes before him. It was a day of public opening, and the museum was buzzing with the chatter of the middle-classes. Erik slid through the crowds deftly, mindful not to loose sight of his target.

The last few days had been devoted to his solitary mission; the chance encounter with Christine had snapped his brittle resolve, and he needed to remain focused, lest his dark heart try to seek her out again. It was all he could do not to relive every agonising, beautiful moment again and again. It was too much to remember her soft skin reflected in relics of gold, and the flecks of candlelight that caught in the thick twists of her hair…

And her drained, aching eyes, still haunted by an angel of death!

That was the image that plagued him, the image of her once luminous eyes now drowned in sorrow and torment. The sight of her formerly smooth, pink lips now cracked and white. He had accomplished what he had set out to do so many years ago; he had captured Christine's soul and carved it into the shape of his music. He had made her the ideal spouse for the spectre he used to be. And ruined the beautiful spirit he loved so painfully.

He had thought it destiny to see her again, but he knew now that it was not. It was a caution, a twisted coincidence to show him exactly what he had reduced her to, a warning for him to stay away.

And stay away he would.

He kept a casual distance between him and his victim, lingering aloofly beside a portrait of the _Marquise de Pompadour_. He studied the picture - the pale tones of her soft skin, the fragile blue hues of her hair and clothes, the way her cool eyes were turned away from the artist. There was something missing from her gaze, a veil that separated her from the rest of the world. She had been an object of passion, the king's official mistress. But she appeared to be carved out of candle wax, an object of fragile beauty that would melt with the touch of intense passion. But then, Erik mused, appearances could be deceptive - he knew this better than anyone.

His acute ears picked up on the lamentable ramblings of two gentlemen who stood beside him. They were arguing amongst themselves as to the exact history of the young woman. One said that she had been married to Le Normant de Tournehem, before entering the court of Louis XV, and the other argued that this was a preposterous pile of nonsense! He argued that in fact, Guillaume Le Normant d'Etiolles had taken the young girl under his wing, and fallen in love with her. Erik smirked to himself, he did not give one centime who this woman had or hadn't married! And he was appaled by the fact that two such _seemingly _well educated gentlemen saw fit to waste their breath on such a ludicrous dispute.

He noticed Edgar resume his leisurely stroll and gave an obligatory nod to the two bickering idiots.

"Gentlemen," he said crisply as he passed. They both stopped for a moment to nod a polite response, and then resumed their twittering.

Erik followed Edgar through the worlds of Egyptian, Greek and Roman artifacts, amongst a myriad of portraits and decorative antiques, and finally into a room of medieval and renaissance sculptures. Edgar made his way through the stone figures very slowly, studying each one intensely through the spectacles that were clipped to the end of his nose.

Erik glowered - today was turning out to be another complete waste of his time, and although he had a profound respect for the works of art that he passed, he viewed most of them indifferently. None of it really mattered; the beautiful pictures and exquisite sculptures would not change his life. Admiring them would not take away his misery. Having the ability to admire beauty did not make one's own soul beautiful.

He sat on a bench near the sculpture of Antonio Canova's _Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss_, and felt his soul try to squirm and writhe out of his body. It floated up and clung to the ornate ceiling, looking down at him. Erik could feel his brain expand, and he felt at once both chained and adrift. The babble of the people around him sounded like the humming of a colony of bees and the noise shook through him, from the base of his spine into the back of his eyes.

A strange feeling washed over him, and for the first time in a very long while he could see himself clearly. The last few months had been a dream, and he was finally awakening to the torment that was his life. What on earth was he doing? Why was he here, in Paris, following this man like a stray dog would a butcher? Why was he risking his own life to further the cause of a man he hardly knew? He did not owe the old goat anything! The questions bit at his brain and a thick bead of sweat oozed from the back of his neck and slid between his shoulder blades. He wanted to tear off the hat, the polished shoes and the mask. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

The thoughts surged through his head, making it hot and heavy. And then, with a sickeningly cold clarity, it was all so simple. Everything that had been in the air came crashing back down around him. And he saw the obvious reality that had been there the whole time.

Henry had not asked him to do this, _he _had offered! He had created another role for himself. He had done all of this because could not face the truth about what his own life was. While he was helping Henry there was a purpose to him, there was a reason for his being. He could not face the sting of total abandonment. So he had made another mask to hide behind, because he did not know who he really was. He could not face the reality of what he was and would always be. It was easier to build another façade than to try and mend the faulty one he had been given. Henry may have given him the means, but he had put this mask on himself.

Erik tried to focus on the sculpture in front of him, on the beautiful lines and smooth skin. Cupid held his wings outstretched, proud, masculine and strong - heroically saving his beloved from her fate. Psyche looked up at him with adoring eyes, opened by the salvation of his kiss, saved by the promise of hope, love and immortality. She had searched for him amongst the heavens, and down into the blazing pit of hell, and was rewarded with a righteous kiss, the gift of life and happiness.

Psyche was both the human spirit and the butterfly's wing, the eternal promise of redemption after the bitterest suffering. The butterfly could burst out of its tomb, and fly out into the world on brilliant wings, the epitome of beauty and life. And Psyche herself was the human soul, whose insurmountable suffering was purified by a real and lasting love.

Erik felt black bile rise in his throat, a taste more bitter than rotting death. This scene haunted him to his very core. Christine had made him into an angel; she had placed her hope in a God she was never allowed to see. She had fashioned his wings with the purity of her imagination, and had made him creator of all the light and passion in her world. And he had gone to her every night, and made love to her soul with his music, shaping her heart to fit with his own. But when she had stolen a glance at him, the angel was no more, and the shadow of death stood in his place.

But in their story, Christine had been the real angel - she was the one with wings. He had gone into hell, and lamented the loss of her love, drowning himself in death and darkness. And it was _she _who had awoken _him _with the promise of a kiss. She had breathed life into the lungs of a decaying ghost. She had made him flesh, and allowed blood to melt his veins of marble.

He continued to stare, crushing the wings in his mind, twisting the smooth texture of Cupid's face into a mass of hideous scars, as rough and tormented as the wild rocks beneath. And instead of reaching for him, Psyche writhed away, twisting her mouth in pain and misery. He was not reviving her; he was killing her - pushing her head into the fire of his own hell, and burning his own soul with her…

"Quite magnificent, isn't it?" said a friendly voice just behind him.

"Perhaps to some," Erik said coldly, turning to see the face of his intruder. He was perturbed and oddly amused to see the face of Edgar Lockhart smiling back at him.

"Ah, a cynic I see!" chuckled Edgar, coming to sit beside Erik on the bench. "And what word would _you_ use to describe this piece then, monsieur?"

Erik turned his attention back to the statue. "Unattainable," he diagnosed firmly.

"Hmm, interesting opinion, monsieur, very interesting..." Edgar adjusted his glasses and looked at the sculpture again.

Erik eyed him with a scowl, and was slightly confused when he noticed the glasses the old man wore did not seem to contain lenses.

"Every time I view this piece I feel a renewed sense of hope," said Edgar thoughtfully. "It is the model of goodness, joy and redemption, it almost breathes with a life of its own."

"Indeed," replied Erik. "But only the Gods can be redeemed by something as small as a kiss; it is not so easy for the rest of us. It nurtures the idea of false hope."

"False hope?" echoed Edgar with a slight chuckle. "My dear boy, this is a symbol of the one thing that can bring salvation into the soul of _any _man!"

Erik quirked a brow. "And what is that?"

"Why, love and forgiveness, of course! It really does conquer all, believe me, monsieur, I have seen it!"

"I will have to take your word for that," Erik said with a sour smile. He was disturbed by the notion that he was conversing casually with the man he had been stalking for the last two weeks. He wanted to laugh, but the humor would not come.

They were silent for a few moments, then Edgar turned to his reluctant companion.

"I wonder, have we met before, monsieur? Something about you is oddly familiar."

Erik felt his face turn hot beneath the mask. Damn, the old fool must've noticed him before! Brilliant. How could he have been so careless? He was loosing his touch; the phantom would have never allowed himself to be seen!

"I do not think so, monsieur. I am new to the area." He kept his tone as cool as he could.

"Ah, never mind. I must've taken you for someone else. That's what happens when you get to my age! Allow me to be your first friend in Paris, then," he held out his hand. "I'm Edgar Lockhart."

Erik stared down at Edgar's hand for a few moments, troubled by the old man's pleasant nature, then he took Edgar's hand and said: "Erik," with a stiff nod. He could see Edgar waiting for a second name, but Erik simply gave him a reserved smile, and turned back to the statue.

"So, what brings you to Paris, Erik?"

"Unfinished business,"

"Ah, very good, I'm a business man myself. It a stressful job. That's why I enjoy leisurely excursions like this."

"Escapism is a beautiful thing," Erik muttered.

"It is indeed, my friend! It is indeed. So, do you know anyone here in Paris?"

"I have some old _acquaintances_, but I have not had the pleasure of seeing them for many years."

"What a shame!" Edgar cried. "You should seek them out, dear boy, I'm sure they would be glad to hear from you!"

Erik tried not to scoff. "Yes, I'm sure they would."

"Well, we can't have you in Paris without a friend in the world. Let me invite you to a small dinner I'm having tomorrow evening, you will be more than welcome. And I'm sure you will have a lot in common with the other gentlemen who will be present."

"That is very good of you, monsieur, but I am afraid I am otherwise engaged."

"Doing nothing?" said Edgar with a knowing smile. Erik grimaced. He felt like a circus performer dodging an onslaught of flying daggers.

"Well at least let me give you the address," Edgar said, taking out a small pad and pencil and scribbling the information down. "It will be at eight o'clock, and it is completely your decision whether or not you join us. But I would be very glad to see you there! I can't bear to think of a young man like you bereft of good company," he tore off the small piece of paper and handed it to Erik.

"My thanks," Erik said, placing the small piece of paper into his suit pocket, cold shock chilling his blood.

Erik could feel strange feeling overtaking him - a small brigade of ants were making their way across his head and neck. It was odd, and what was even more astonishing was that it wasn't unwelcome. In a different world he would accept this invitation gladly, and attend the dinner with Christine on his arm. He rose abruptly, needing to escape these odd sensations. Edgar also stood up, and Erik was just about to take his leave when he heard another voice behind them:

"Father!" the voice called.

"Ah, Peter, there you are!" said Edgar cheerfully.

"I'm sorry to be late. The train was delayed leaving Reims, but I got here as soon as I could!"

"Never mind, you are here now," Edgar chuckled, patting his son on the arm.

Erik turned to look at the young man. His cheeks were flushed and he appeared to be short of breath. There was an energetic air to him; his light hair was glossy and his smile bright. There was no semblance to his biological father in his manner or appearance, except for his eyes, which were unmistakably Henry's.

"Peter, I would like you to meet a new friend of mine," Edgar said, turning towards his silent companion. "This is Erik. Erik - my son Peter."

Peter and Erik shook hands.

"A pleasure, monsieur...?" Peter said, waiting for Erik to add a surname.

Erik felt his mind go black. His eyes scrawled along the newspaper that was folded under the young man's arm, and he grasped at the first name he saw.

"Erik _Larsson_," he said with a brisk smile. He was surprised at how easily the young man seemed to accept the name, and even more shocked that he pretended not to notice the mask.

"I've invited Erik to a supper tomorrow," said Edgar. "Will you be able to come, Peter?"

"I'm afraid not, I have promised to take Meg to _Café de la Paix_."

"Ah, I see you have taken my advice. Trust me, she won't be disappointed!"

"No, father I'm sure she won't be," Peter smiled.

"If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I'm afraid I must take my leave," said Erik. He could feel his lungs constricting with a lack of air.

"Very well, I do hope to see you tomorrow!" said Edgar with a bright smile.

"Yes, perhaps you will. I thank you for the invitation, monsieur," then he tipped his hat at Peter. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Good day, Monsieur Larsson," said Peter smiling amiably.

Erik nodded to both of them again and then turned and strode away, feeling emotions he did not recognise. A year ago he would have been elated with an outcome like this - he had succeeded in everything he had come to Paris to accomplish. He had found Henry's son, and he now had the perfect means to worm his way in and gather the information Henry would need to extract his revenge.

But he did not feel any elevation, and there was a strange stinging in his heart, making him feel abject and wretched. And he was disturbed, not because of how he felt, but because he did not know how to cure the distress.

The darkness would not save him, and Erik Larsson was forced to walk the whole way home feeling utterly despicable.

oOo


	14. Treading Water

AN: Sorry for the horrible delay, real life just loves getting in the way! I hope you like this chapter, and huge thanks to GothAngelUk for the help!

* * *

_Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us._

Emily Bronte – Wuthering Heights.

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_**Treading Water**_

oOo

Christine pulled Meg's sunny hair back into a chignon. The smooth tresses shone under the pressure of her small fingers - a pool of deep shine, surrounded by a ring of while gold. She slid the pins into place, admiring the way the hair held obediently. She would never be able to impose such an immaculate style on her own hair - her unruly curls would escape the pins and create a wild mess around her face. She looked at Meg in the mirror, and smiled at her friend's optimistic beauty. It warmed her heart to see Meg looking so happy. She slid one final decorative pin into place, and then stood back to admire her work.

"You look lovely," she said with a smile.

Meg turned her head slightly to look at the back of her hair in the mirror, making sure it was all secure beneath the pins. Then she looked Christine in the eyes and smiled.

"You are very talented, Christine! I could never manage such a style by myself."

"You have beautiful hair. It has nothing to do with my talent," said Christine, returning the unused pins to a small tin on Meg's vanity. Then she noticed Meg's twitching hands and stopped tidying up.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Meg said, fiddling with her gloves. "It's just that I haven't seen Peter in almost two weeks, what with his trip to Reims, and I feel a little nervous. It feels as if it's the first time I'm meeting with him." She shook her head apologetically. "I don't know, I'm probably being silly… just ignore me."

"You really love him, don't you?" Christine said with a knowing smile.

Meg's cheeks flashed with crimson and she rolled her eyes at her friend.

"Don't look at me like that, you're making it worse!" She swatted Christine on the arm with her gloves and then began to fan herself.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," said Christine trying to be serious. "There is nothing wrong with being in love; you deserve it more than anyone else I know."

Her complement only served to deepen Meg's blush. Christine grinned and began to gather up the ribbons they had discarded earlier.

"I suppose I'm just scared," admitted Meg, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. "I have a terribly irrational fear that something is going to go wrong."

Christine quirked a confused brow. "Why should anything go wrong?"

"Ugh, I don't know," said Meg with a sigh, "but when do any of these things ever turn out well? It's been so long since I heard a story with a happy ending. Why should mine be any different?"

Christine was arranging the ribbons in the drawer, her back turned to Meg. She knew that it was _her_ life that had caused these doubts in her friend, and the thought made her feel ill. Meg seemed to sense her apprehension.

"Oh, Christine – I didn't mean... I'm sorry…"

"No, I know you didn't," Christine said, turning around and attempting a smile.

"I'm sorry, it was careless of me. I don't know why I said it!"

"It's fine, Meg - truly. I don't want to talk about me. All I seem to do is talk about myself! Both with you and with Mathieu… I'm sick of hearing my own name!" She walked over to sit beside Meg on the bed. "This isn't about me; this is about you and Peter. Meg, I've seen the way he looks at you. I've never seen such adoration before. I've no doubt that the two of you are going to be very happy!"

"I _am_ happy," said Meg with a small smile. "I only wish you were too, and then everything would be perfect."

"This is your time to shine. With all the love in the world I don't think I could ever be as happy as you are. Let me be happy for you at the moment, that's enough for me. I have the rest of my life to find myself. And who knows, perhaps one day I'll find a man who loves me as much as Peter loves you!" she smiled again and went back over to the drawer.

Meg was silent for a few moments. She could feel her next words on her tongue, deadly words that would cut Christine's heart - but she could not seem to keep them inside her mouth.

"What if you've already found him?" she said, eyes glued to the floor.

Christine fumbled with the ribbon she was holding and dropped it, then she turned around slowly.

"What do you mean?"

Meg swallowed hard - she could feel the revelation rising in her throat. The words were ready; they were pinching the inside of her mouth, waiting to be released. She shaped her lips to say them…

"What if you've already found him," she repeated. "Someone who loves you beyond all reason, only you don't know it yet…"

Christine was very still. She put her hand on Meg's bureau to steady herself. She seemed to be swaying softly, like a cobweb in a draft.

"What do you mean?" she asked again in a pained voice.

Meg tried to speak, but found herself mute. Why had she done this? Where would she begin to tell her friend the story of the obsessive love that had nearly taken all of their lives? How could she speak of the man who had tormented her every living moment? She felt as though she was made of glass, and Christine's hurt eyes would shatter her into a million pieces.

"Peter is here, my dear," said Madame Giry, knocking on the door softly, before poking her head into the room. Meg's eyes snapped to her, but Christine kept her gaze fixed at her friend.

"I'll be down in a moment," said Meg, giving her mother a warm smile. Madame Giry nodded and left the room again.

There was a tense moment. And the silence seemed to stretch into eternity.

"You mean Raoul, don't you? You think I made a mistake."

"No, Christine. That was your choice. I'm sorry if I upset you, I wasn't thinking…"

"Who did you mean then if not Raoul?" Christine could feel anger shaking her to the core.

"Nobody, I'm so sorry… I don't know why I said it. Are you angry with me?"

Christine shook her head, but her eyes did not soften. A sharp pain cut through her head and suddenly it was hard to breathe. "No, of course not. You should go, Peter is waiting… I'll see you tomorrow."

Meg gave her a wry half-smile. "Are you going to Monsieur Edgar's with mamman?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. I'm tired - I think I'll just have an early night."

"It might do you some good to get out," Meg said, trying to find the happy peace they had been sharing moments before. Christine felt herself soften slightly. She knew Meg did not mean any harm.

"I'll think about it... Now you really should go and save Peter from your mother's scrutiny… I'm sure he's missed you terribly!"

"All right, but I am sorry…are you sure you're not upset with me? I really didn't mean to -"

Christine held up her hand to interrupt her. "Please, let's just forget it! Have a lovely evening."

Meg smiled and gave Christine a small hug, and then she turned and left the room.

Christine sank down onto the small chair in front of Meg's vanity. Who was it that Meg meant? It was not Raoul; Meg knew her pain too well to disturb that grave. No, this was something else – someone else…

Mathieu! Of course, Christine thought. Meg thought she was falling in love with Mathieu? The notion was absurd! She wanted to laugh, but her lungs were clogged with disbelief. She did not love Mathieu - she was only just beginning to _like_ him. At best she found him amiable and interesting to be with, and at worst she found him haughty and clinically minded. He was a man of science and she was a girl of dreams. And there was no part of her heart that could force an attachment to him.

She found herself yearning to be somewhere else entirely whenever she was in his company. Her lonely heart was calling for something she did not recognise. The more time she spent with him, the more confused she became, and the more she talked, the more she wanted to conceal.

And there was something else building inside of her, inside the darkest crevices of her soul. A dark ache was gaining strength. Talking with Mathieu about the past was not killing the pain. It was feeding it, and the more she remembered, the more it hurt.

This pain was at the back of everything. It had outgrown her heart and was now forcing its way outwards, filling her soul. It was an unwanted parasite, feasting on her blood and her mind. It had been slowly pushing everything else out of the way - her love for Raoul, her freedom… her sanity. It pushed incessantly, claiming her unwilling heart, claiming _her_! It had made a comfortable nest inside of her, and nothing could make it move. And what horrified her was that she did not want it to. It was part of her now - her insides. And she would not be able to breathe if it was not there.

Her discussions with Mathieu were leading her towards a precipice. And she knew the time would come when she would have to make the ultimate decision - run or jump.

She left Meg's room and made her way to find Madame Giry. The house was small, with three bedrooms upstairs, and a sitting room and kitchen downstairs. The furniture was a strange mix of memorabilia that had been recovered from the Opera, and worn and tatty second hand goods - the exquisite mixed with the mundane. Strangely, Christine found that she preferred the pieces from the Opera in this domestic setting - they were beautiful, but also comforting. They reminded her of the three inhabitants of the house, theatrical relics trying to stay in tune with the lungs of a real, breathing world.

Madame Giry was in the sitting room, pinning up her plait with expert precision. Her long, delicate fingers worked the pins with a grace the like of which Christine had never seen before. And she found herself mesmerized by the older woman's dancing hands.

"Are you all right, my dear?" Madame Giry asked, taking the final pin from between her teeth and fixing it to her plait.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry," Christine said, blinking back into reality. "I'm just feeling a little tired... I think I'll stay at home tonight, if that's all right with you."

"You do not wish to be entertained by Edgar's _charming_ business associates?" Madame Giry asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile. "Of course I understand, my dear, these meetings with Monsieur la Claire are taking their toll."

"They certainly are," said Christine, slumping down onto the divan.

"Are they helping you? If you don't mind my asking..."

"I think so," Christine said with a frown. "But I feel like the clouds are getting thicker, and not clearing. But Mathieu said that it will get worse before it gets better. I suppose I shall have to trust him."

"Do you feel any different?" Madame Giry asked, coming to sit beside Christine on the divan.

"Yes, actually," said Christine thoughtfully. "I feel clearer about a few things. Mathieu has taught me to try and accept what happened with Raoul. I've come to realise that there are certain things you cannot change, no matter how much you might wish it."

"He is right, we all have regrets. But it does no good to wallow in them. Life continues, and we must move with it!"

"I'm thinking about writing to him, to Raoul, I mean. Do you think that it's wise?"

Madame Giry was stunned. "If you think it will help you to move on. What would you say to him?"

"That I'm sorry," Christine gave her a sad smile. "And that I hope that he is happy. I don't think I can move on until I have attempted to make amends for what I did to him."

Christine could see Madame Giry's brow crease in apprehension. The older woman seemed disturbed by what she heard.

"You were not the only one at fault, my dear. Raoul is a grown man, and I hope he still counts you as a friend. He will understand that you were not yourself back then."

"I wish I could remember who I was. Then maybe all of this would make more sense."

"Perhaps you should leave the letter to le Vicomte until that knowledge has returned to you, hmm? Until then everything you say to him will only be a half truth. Amends should only ever be made with a whole heart."

Christine nodded slowly. "Yes, perhaps you're right."

"What do you think of Monsieur la Claire? Do you like him?" asked Madame Giry, desperate to steer the subject in a different direction.

Christine thought about this for a long moment. Everywhere she turned people seemed to want her to define her feelings for Mathieu. She did not know how she felt. Her feelings for him were not of the romantic kind – she was certain of this. But he was not a friend either, not like Meg or Raoul. Yet she was becoming dependent on him; he was quickly becoming an important figure in her life.

It was all too easy, she thought. It was as though he was stepping into a mould that had already been carved. He was strong and dependant and she knew she could tell him anything without judgment or regret. He was a small part of her life away from the madness of the past, which in itself was strange, because they spent all of their time trying to make her remember who she had been before. But in these two weeks she felt stronger than she had done in months!

She sighed. None of it made sense, and she did not want to share her crazed thoughts with Madame Giry. So she simply smiled and said:

"Yes, I like him very much."

Madame Giry accepted this with a nod and a smile. "I'm glad. You certainly seem happier."

And then Christine surprised herself by saying: "I feel it."

She looked up at the woman who had been the only mother she had ever known and smiled.

"You look lovely," she said.

A corner of Madame Giry's mouth curled down into a displeased frown. And Christine knew that it was hard for her to accept the compliment. The older woman glanced at the mantelpiece clock.

"And it is time for me to leave," she stood up and began to brush down her skirts. "I have left a copy of the address on the table, along with carriage fare, should you change your mind."

"Thank you, but I think I'm just going to have an early night."

"Very well," said Madame Giry, fixing her bonnet into place. "But it is there, should you need it."

They shared a warm farewell and then Madame Giry left the room.

When the front door had clicked shut, Christine let her body fall back against the divan and let out an exhausted sigh. In truth, she wasn't tired at all - her mind was alive. More alive than it had been in months, the colonies of shadows in her head were moving again, scratching at the dark corners of her memory, undoing some of the iron bolts encasing her mind. They were clanking and creaking, making her eyes swell against her closed lids. It was all too much, and it was all so loud! She squeezed her eyes against the pain, biting the inside of her mouth until she could taste blood.

There was a knock at the door.

She rose slowly and approached the hallway, holding onto the wall to try and support her shaking ankles.

The early evening sun shone against the window, blurring her already painful vision.

The silhouette of a man stood outlined against the glass.

oOo

Erik lay in bed, watching the minutes tick by. This was the first time in his entire life that he had stayed in bed until late afternoon. He rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and felt the skin of his palm chafe against his unshaven cheek.

He looked around the room; it was a mess of sketches, plans and liquor bottles. In the previous days when he had not been following Edgar, he had been planning like a madman, finding out all he could about the old man's business accounts and deals. He had been trying to uncover any weaknesses, any previous deviant behavior. His life had been dedicated to planning another man's demise. It was a vicious, unprovoked attack on a man he did not know. Planning such things usually made him feel powerful, like a controlling force with a sense of purpose – seeking revenge on all of those who had shunned him!

But today Erik felt only exhausted – and annoyed.

He was infuriated with Edgar Lockhart - thanks to him there was no reason for him to arise this day. He did not need to follow the old man around the city; he did not need to draw up the plans to expose the truth about Peter's real parentage. There was no purpose to him, he could stay in this bed all day and it would not matter!

He was annoyed with the old man for showing him kindness, basic, simple human compassion that could not be shunned or laughed at. The most astonishing thing was that the old man did not want anything in return for his friendship. He did not want Erik to build a palace, stalk the streets or kill anyone. The only thing that had been requested of him was his company! Erik wanted to laugh; he could see the scene so clearly. Business men with pristine moustaches and groomed eyebrows sharing brandy and cigars with the _Monsieur O.G_! They would genially ask him his opinion on matters of business and politics, and then nod along in a hum of agreement.

Damn them all, the fools, they could keep their useless sympathy – he did not want it!

Erik's deepest fury was at himself. At that weak part of his heart that was so deeply touched by this gesture of kindness, at the part of him that treasured the small piece of paper which held the address. An invitation! The only invitation he had ever received, and he did not know if he was more disgusted with himself for his weak gratitude or for the deception that had brought the invitation in the first place.

Aggravated, he swung his legs out of bed and began to pace the room. There was some consolation to these feelings, he mused bitterly - at least they were a distraction from Christine. He knew he needed to stay away, he knew he would be utterly ruined if he so much as saw her face again. But the painful knowledge that she was out there, without the boy, was a temptation he could not seem to ignore.

He had promised himself that he would stay away, that he would move on and let her find peace. He was the darkness that dragged her down, and another encounter between them might well be the end of her. Would he be satisfied then? When he had ruined the only thing he could ever love? Could he really risk looking into her eyes again and seeing the hate that might be held there?

But all of these weak protests were no good – he wanted to see her again!

He could find out where she lived, it would be no effort at all! He had merely been restraining himself. He knew he _could_ find it out whenever he wanted; it was a small spark of power he had allowed himself. But it was proving to be a dangerous temptation, whispering like a serpent in his ear every moment of the day.

He had chosen to stay away and let her be free, but he knew he could go back on his promise at any moment. One moment of weakness would be all it would take. It was upon his mercy that she had found her freedom! And it would only take a change of mind for him to break his unspoken pledge.

He stalked over to the wash stand and set about making himself look slightly more respectful. His hair was now so long, that it curled slightly beneath his chin. He smoothed the mass of dark brown away from his face and prepared to shave his unscarred cheek. He saw Christine's face staring back at him with each scratch of his razor blade - her beautiful, innocent eyes searching for her beloved Angel of Music…

…he splashed some water against the mirror and Christine dripped away.

He selected a suit of dark brown, with a matching cravat and a dark blue waistcoat. _Every inch the polite city gentleman_, he thought wretchedly.

He threw it back and selected the only black suit he had allowed himself. Putting it on gave him a wild flourish of nostalgia, and the man he had been trying to bury came back to life for a few agonising seconds. But this man was replaced by the empty guilt that had become a constant presence in his heart. It was only a black suit, not a mask, it could not change the bitter churning that made him feel weak and heavy inside. He finished dressing and turned sharply away from his reflection.

Erik tucked the small invitation into his pocket and glanced at the clock. It was approaching six; he had two long hours to fill before he was expected at dinner. He still had not completely decided whether or not he was going to attend - it was a game of roulette he was playing with himself. First he would find the place, and then he would decide.

He stood for a few moments by the door, breathing deeply. This visit was going to take all of his courage. He could walk down the street now without much trouble; he was becoming as anonymous in the masses as in his underground labyrinth. But spending an evening with the scrutinizing elite was something he could never prepare himself for. It was like walking to his own death, hearing a requiem with each beat of his heart.

He took one final breath and left the room.

oOo


	15. Crossing the Wire

AN: Really sorry again for the delay with this chapter! I have the next two almost done so there shouldn't be too long until the next update. Thank you everyone who took time to review the last chapter, I really appreciate it! And thanks to those who took the time to point out some of my boo boo's from previous chapters, I will go through and change them as soon as I can :)

This chapter follows directly from the last one, so it might be good to re read number 14 to get in tune with everyone's state of mind!

Big hugs to Goth Angel UK for the help!

* * *

_"How do you know I'm mad?" asked Alice.  
"You must be," said the cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."_

Lewis Carroll - Alice in Wonderland

oOo

_**Crossing the Wire**_

oOo

"May I help you?"

The first thing she saw was his shoulders, and his back, covered in a dark suit. He had turned away, he was leaving… perhaps he had thought that there was nobody at home. He looked bigger in this strange twilight, and she hadn't noticed before how tall he really was.

The pain in her chest ignited again, and it was hard to breathe. She was caught somewhere between limbo and déjà vu, living inside a mind that was not her own. All around her was mist, and she was walking towards that tall figure, he was pulling her in against her own will… This was somebody else's reality – not hers! Her real self was clawing at her flesh, trying to escape, trying to make her see the things that were right in front of her. But she silenced that voice, swallowed it down, and smothered it with her hands…

She was not strong enough to listen to it yet.

"Bonjour, Christine." He said the words cheerfully, but she still felt as though she had been harpooned. She wiped the cold sweat from her brow and smiled - luckily he did not seem to notice.

"Mathieu," she said. "What are you doing here? Do we have a meeting that I've forgotten about?"

Mathieu's cheeks flushed red, and he gave her an awkward smile.

"No, not exactly…May I come in?"

She nodded and stood aside, and he walked past her into the house.

It was only when they entered the sitting room that she noticed he had been holding something.

"I brought these for you," he said, holding out a bunch of flowers – red roses tied with silk. He spoke past the embarrassment in his throat. "I'm really pleased with the progress you've been making. And, well – I saw these and thought of you…"

"Oh," Christine said softly, taking the roses from him. She looked down at the beautiful bundle. It was strange; she could not recall seeing a rose in such a long time. Madame Giry was very fond of flowers, and there would always be lilies, chrysanthemums or tulips in a vase on the table - but never roses.

Surely Madame Giry would not mind if she made these the centre piece of the room? They were very beautiful, and the only flowers she had received for such a long time. Her anxiety dripped away and she was left feeling calm; Mathieu thought she was getting better! She had thought so herself, but had been too scared to admit it; however, if Mathieu thought it then it must be true! He thought she was making good progress – he was pleased with her…

Something quivered inside her head, and she felt a flash of pain behind her eyes.

"Christine, are you all right?"

His voice seemed to be far away and the thorns grew beneath her fingers, piercing her skin and injecting her with something sour. She felt her arms grow weak - these roses had been carved from stone! They were too heavy. She wanted to drop them, she wanted to throw them back at Mathieu, crush the petals beneath her feet and run away. But she knew she could not - they were a gift…

She could not give them back…he was pleased with her….

The roses fell, and she stumbled back, reaching for a wall that was not there.

"Christine?" came Mathieu's concerned voice from somewhere in the mist.

She felt an arm circle her waist, and she held onto his shoulder for support.

"Forgive me," she said, blinking softly against the pain. "I was just feeling a little dizzy, could you please help me to the divan?"

He helped her to the seat and fetched a glass of water. She smiled with gratitude and sipped at the cold liquid. Mathieu knelt before her with a concerned look on his face.

"How long have you been having these strange turns?"

"I don't know," she said with a small frown. "For as long as I can remember … but it's only recently that they've started hurting so much."

"I see."

Mathieu stood up and began to walk around the small room. Why hadn't she mentioned this before! She was a much more advanced case than he had originally thought. He had been trying to coax the memories out gently, with kind words and soft conversation, to try and ignite a chain reaction within her, but he could see now that the chain was already moving, and it was tormenting its host violently.

"Christine," he said, walking back to her urgently, "what was it that made you feel faint this time?"

She bit her lip. "I'm not sure..."

"You need to try and remember, it could be very important – what was it that made you feel ill?"

She closed her eyes and tried to force the feeling back, the mist began to seep into her nostrils again and she could taste smoke at the back of her mouth…

"The doorway, the shadows and – _and the roses_…"

"What exactly was it about those things, Christine?"

Her frown deepened and she squeezed her eyes harder.

"The shapes, your suit... I don't know! I can't see it…"

"What can't you see? What's there?"

Her fingers clutched at the fabric of her skirts, her hands were shaking with the pain.

"The roses are there, and the crowd – and the darkness, but I don't want the darkness. I didn't _ever_ want it … but he gave it to me, and now it's all I have! It's not my fault, I just wanted to be free…I don't want to feel this way!"

"What don't you want to feel?" he said calmly, his heart was pounding; this could be it – the moment of her revelation. She was much stronger than he had ever given her credit for; her mind was remembering at its own rapid pace, she was nearing the edge. All she had to do was leap, and let him catch her.

"This ache, this _sickness_… it's not meant to be this way! I was never meant to feel this way!"

"Christine, try to remember what you don't want to feel."

Her eyes flew open and her skin paled, her lashes were dark and wet.

"I'm sorry," she panted. "I – I can't..."

Mathieu felt a stab of guilt – he had pushed her too far. She was not ready, and his desire for success forced this premature confrontation. But there was also a twitch of excitement; she had mentioned _him_, the figure in the darkness. He was in her mind again, whether she knew it or not. Mathieu knew if he pushed her again now, she would remember - she was so close. But forcing it upon her so suddenly might be her undoing.

"It's all right," he said, placing his hand on hers. "I probably pushed you too far… drink some more of this water, it will help your body to relax."

Christine obeyed and sipped at the liquid, feeling its soothing effect quench her body. She felt her heart begin to slow and her skin prickled under the layers of cool perspiration. Mathieu had moved and was now sitting next to her on the divan.

"Are these episodes becoming more frequent?" he asked after a pause.

"Yes, several times a day, the smallest thing causes me to loose control…" She made a painful noise and held her head in her hands. "I just want it all to be over…"

"It will be soon…and then you will be as free as a bird," he said kindly.

Christine smiled and looked up at him. "Did you really call by just to give me the flowers?"

Mathieu's face dropped suddenly and he looked away. For some reason Christine could feel cold panic crawling down her back. Mathieu stood up and strode towards the window.

"I came to tell you that I was very pleased with the progress you were making and… and that I am going to refer you to somebody else, another doctor… the flowers are to say goodbye."

Christine swallowed hard, and all she could manage was a confused "Why?"

"Personal reasons, certain things have… developed, things that are out of my control. You have my word that I did everything I could to stop it, but the situation is difficult."

"But, I don't want to talk to somebody else. I can't…"

"Please, Christine, you don't understand -"

"How could you do this to me now? After everything you said, you promised… You said you could help me…" she said, shifting with panic.

"I know, and I wouldn't do this unless I had to, but there is no other way.... My mentor, Ambrose, will be helping you… he is a very kind man, Christine..."

"No, he won't be helping me, _nobody_ is going to help me!" Christine stood and walked to the other side of the room, her small hands clenched into angry fists.

Mathieu was horrified, this wasn't the way this was supposed to go - he didn't want to hurt her, but she would never understand. His mind was in a vicious conflict, he didn't want to see her give up, not when she was this close. But he couldn't carry on helping her; it was not right – not right at all!

"Christine you must let him help you, you are so close to becoming better… I'd hate to see you give up when we have worked to hard to get here."

"No," she said. "I don't want to hear any more… I have had enough of people telling me what to think and how to feel! I don't care, these memories can stay buried! They can rot inside of me…"

"Please, don't be like this," Mathieu said, trying to remain calm.

"Just go," she said sharply, and the anger in her eyes shook him.

"Christine, we've come too far…don't end it like this."

"Very well, then. Tell me why," she said, with her chin raised defiantly.

"What?"

"Tell me why you cannot help me."

"Christine…"

"Tell me!"

"I can't…"

"Tell me!"

"Because I'm in love with you!" he shouted, looking instantly ashamed.

The anger hovered in Christine's face, and then melted into shock. Her fists slowly uncoiled and her hands hung awkwardly at her sides. Mathieu's entire face was red, and his eyes were fixed at the floor. He could not look at her.

Christine could not find any words. Her heart was pounding and she could not look at Mathieu - she felt sick. She was appalled, how could he do this? She did not want him to love her; she didn't want anyone to love her! She raised her eyes to look at him, and saw his shame. Hot pity flamed within her; she wanted to cry for him and his misery. She tried desperately to find some compassion, some understanding. But instead she felt an acidic resentment, she wanted him to go – she did not want to deal with this!

Mathieu moved slowly and retrieved his hat and gloves, shaking awkwardly as he put them on. When he was ready to leave he turned to her.

"Forgive me, Christine… I didn't mean to offend you. I wish you a lifetime of happiness…" He smiled sadly and left the room. For a dizzy instant Christine made to follow him, but then she stopped. She had nothing to say to him – there was nothing she could do to relieve his sorrow. And this intense pity she felt seemed to come from a dark part of her psyche, from a feeling that was burned aggressively into her heart.

She went to the hallway to fetch her hat and gloves, before racing to the dining room table to snatch the money Madame Giry had left for her. She needed to be with people, she needed the voices of strangers to quieten the buzzing in her head, and perhaps some food to distill the nauseous apprehension in her stomach.

Madame Giry would have the answers. There was no time left for games, she wanted to know everything… she wanted control of her own life, no more saviours, no more heroes. She wanted to save herself.

She stared down at the address, took a deep breath, and left the house.

oOo

The _Au Chat Noir Café _was alive with chatter, merriment and laughter. Glasses clinked, champagne flowed and voices called out from one party, dominating over and drowning the rippling twitter of neighbouring tables.

Through the mist of top hats and cigar smoke Edgar Lockhart's select group of guests roared with vivacious laughter. They smacked the table tops in delight, threw down absinthe and wine, and chuckled at their host's tales about his life in London.

_Dinner_ had been a very loose term for a meeting like this; the place was awash with raised wine glasses, green liquid and smoke. Madame Giry was glad that Christine had decided not to come. The stuffy atmosphere and haughty conversation would not be appropriate for a troubled young girl. Even _she_ felt out of her depth in this bourgeois gathering, where retired actors and musicians reminisced about their extinct careers in the arts. The old ballerina smiled politely and sipped at her wine, nodding with forged approval at each egotistical tale.

"I'm sure I saw you dance the lead in _La Sylphide_ in the production at the old Opera House… now, what year could that have been?" asked a small, pointy man named Ruben, a retired actor from Vienna.

"1860, Monsieur," Madame Giry said, returning her glass to the table.

"My… that makes me feel old!" he exclaimed with a cackle. "And that would make you…" he closed his eyes as he tried to add up the years.

"Too old and too wise to fall for such foolery!" she said with mock disapproval and he laughed at her seriousness.

He was about to ask her another question when they were silenced by Edgar. The old man stood up and began to clink his glass with a folk to gather the attention of his guests.

"If you would be so kind," he said with a smile, as the last of the humming dissolved into silence. "I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for coming to my little gathering! Especially to the lovely Annette Giry, who in less than a year will be bound to me by the bonds of marriage!"

The rest of the table looked at her in shock, Madame Giry was the most stunned of all.

"…Through the marriage of my son Peter and her daughter Marguerite, of course!"

His joke earned him another roar of amusement. Madame Giry smiled politely, and pretended she had enjoyed the joke as much as the others. Edgar continued:

"I am delighted to accept her, Marguerite and Mademoiselle Daae into the family…"

He began to chirp on about some of the other guests, and Madame Giry moved to sip her wine, taking in the faces around her. All of these men were old, approaching the winter of life. And yet she could still see them in their prime, as handsome faces lost in the maze of youth. These beautiful people that had once sang and acted upon the stage, under the adoring gaze of elegant young ladies, in their minds they were still those young men, wiser perhaps, but still the same. Time could wrinkle the skin but not the soul. She knew this because she also felt that way; she was still that terrified young ballerina, anticipating her first solo with cold dread. But her heart felt wiser… her soul carried secrets only a mature mind could understand.

She continued to look around the room with a smile… and then choked on her wine.

Her gaze halted at a figure in the doorway.

Her ears went hot with shock, and fear spread over her skin like wind upon water. Her face morphed slowly into grey marble, with the terrified look of a convict approaching the guillotine. The rest of the world seemed far away, distant echoes she could not recognise, as though she was hearing the world through a backward reality. There was nothing beneath her, nothing around her, nothing but that face…

She blinked, and the doorway was empty again, the droning chatter of the room seemed to jump back from inside her own mind, and the world was loud and real again.

Following an instinct she could not recognise, and against her own judgement, she stood up from the table and ran to the door…

oOo

It was disgusting. The whole scene made him want to vomit. The laughter, the faces animated with delight, the way they sat shoulder to shoulder squawking with glee… it was too much - it was horrible.

Erik had been in this spot for an hour, merging with the shadows outside the café. Twice he had nearly walked in, and twice he had almost choked with the fear of it. He could not do it, he was not part of that world and he never would be!

Seeing it in this way made him feel everything with a new clarity, he was from a different reality, the underworld of life. His face may have driven him down, but it was _him_ that had made a life in the darkness. He sought it, it fed him - _he_ had condemned his own soul. He belonged in the darkness, it hadn't chosen him… he had chosen it.

He had been a fool to ever think he could change. He was what he was, the Phantom, an Assassin, the Angel of Death!

But, try as he might, he could not silence the whispering in his ear, the voice that taunted him, creeping up and thumping him when he least expected it… _you are none of those things… you are Erik!_

_You are a coward!_

He tried to silence it, to suppress it with anger and hatred. He was no coward! The world had done this to him… he had been shunned by everyone and everything… and now he was taking his revenge. He was not a coward; he was no creature to be pitied!

He straightened his cravat, and walked towards the door. He was not a coward. This was the best way to get to Edgar Lockhart; he would play the role of a friend and make the old man believe he had found a rough diamond. He would let them pity him and make him one of their own! He would sneak in slowly, and get beneath their skin. And then he would tell Peter everything, and all of Edgar's lies and folly would be exposed!

The world wanted him to be evil – and so evil he would be!

He entered the café confidently, staring at all of the faces with distaste. Nobody turned to note his entrance, nobody screamed and pointed, nobody looked at his mask… he really was a ghost!

But then he noticed one pair of eyes looking directly at him, one face in the busy crowd that was as grim and lifeless as his own.

He knew that face. And she knew him.

He could hear Edgar's speech somewhere in the distance and the words seemed to echo inside his head…

…Peter and Meg Giry… married… family… happiness…

_Christine…_

Coward!

It was all too much.

He ran.

oOo

From outside the café, on the other side of the road, another pair of eyes watched his fleeing figure.

Another shadow followed him into the night.

oOo


	16. The Edge of Madness

_AN: As usual, big hugs to Goth Angel UK! _

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_I see thee better in the dark,_

_I do not need a light._

Emily Dickinson – 'I See Thee Better in the Dark'

oOo

_**The Edge of Madness**_

oOo

Erik made his way up the darkened street. His shoes squelched on the pavement with each step, the thick mud splashed up against his shoes and his trousers. It was a satisfying sound. He was stamping on the melted dreams of the world that had slighted him. Their souls were beneath his feet, under his power, and he was condemning them all to hell! The air was spiced with dampness and death.

Only a few lamps were lit, obscuring the difference between light and shadow, their umbrellas of hazy light creating golden halos that quivered against the black walls.

Erik belonged in this realm; his towering frame loomed on the sides of the walls like a vampire lurking through a black mist. The shadows bowed to him, providing a grey canopy to camouflage their dark master. Returning to this place of darkness was easy - a homecoming. He was making his way back to the underworld with another soul in tow.

He was very much aware that he was being followed. He had been aware for some time. The foolish woman was trying her best to be inconspicuous, but she was as loud as one of Carlotta's epic tantrums! He knew she must be either desperate or stupid… or both. This was not a safe part of the city, and even _he_ had to be on his guard. So it was a brave woman who walked here alone at night - especially to stalk him.

Erik stopped suddenly. So did his pursuer. He started again, and so did the footsteps. He did this a few times - he needed to be in control of this strange situation. He was the predator, never the prey. He stopped again. But the footsteps carried on, so Erik waited, tense and ready. His pursuer did not flee, the gait clicked steadily towards him - louder, harder and faster, with a brisk determination.

This person wanted him.

He could feel a sickly dread begin to spread across his neck, mixed with the anticipation of death. He did not want to kill her, but she was leaving him with very little choice. He would not be hunted and chained, not now… _not ever!_

He should not have come back.

Suddenly there was a presence standing directly behind him, he could feel the eyes in his spine, the gaze scorching his back.

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

"_Show yourself!_" the sharp voice hissed out.

Erik turned around slowly. The sheen from a street lamp fell across his face, giving his pursuer a clear view of his grimly smirking mouth.

"Madame," he said, tilting his hat slightly.

His pursuer stumbled back with her hand over her mouth, aghast and utterly appalled.

"Mon Dieu!" Madame Giry gasped, her wide eyes never leaving his dark form. "It really is you… you have returned!"

"So it would seem."

"I hoped I had been mistaken. I thought it to be an apparition - but you're really here… in the flesh…"

They stood for a few moments, adjusting to this strange reality. They knew so little about one another, and yet their histories were as entwined as vines upon a grave.

They momentarily returned to the roles of so many years ago - the Phantom and the ballet mistress, two pieces of driftwood fated to be thrown together again and again. At one time she had been the most prominent figure in his life, his only link to the world above. Perhaps in a different lifetime they could have been friends - but not now, not after everything.

Madame Giry could feel her shock fizzle away; it was replaced by something else - something bitter. He had finally come back… after all this time! All of the pain and blood he had spilled had been mopped up, and they were all _finally_ moving on.

But now he was back, and all the hurt would return again.

"Why have you come back?" she demanded, her throat constricting with anger.

"_That_, Madame, is my business."

Erik took note of her appearance. The years had not been kind; she had aged a lot since their last meeting. She looked tired and drained. She wore a black dress and matching bonnet, and her sharp, astute eyes glared out at him from beneath.

"You've come back to dredge up the past, no doubt!" she hissed. "Is there another grand building you wish to haunt and burn?"

"I have some business in the area. Nothing more. Now, if you will excuse me…"

His casual dismissal only served to deepen her anger.

"I know all about the business you are interested in, Monsieur. You bring trouble wherever you go! Whatever this _business_ of yours is, I'll wager a bet that it is not honourable!"

"Well, then, be glad that it is my business… and not yours." He gave her an icy smile.

His voice was calm - too calm. Madame Giry did not trust this tone, and his casual, acid politeness was infuriating. How could he come back and act like nothing had happened? He had left them with nothing, and he did not care! He must know that Christine was not married; the Vicomte's new match was common knowledge… he must know…

She knew exactly why he was here.

"Have you come to find Christine?" she asked abruptly, her anger spilling over. She was sure she saw Erik flinch, but he hid it well.

"That is the past," he sneered. "I have no interest in _that _subject."

She saw the muscles in his neck tighten, and she knew he was using all of his self control. But within a few seconds the tension had gone, and he was looking at her mildly.

"I wish you a good evening, Madame. I am glad to see that you are well."

He spoke as if addressing an old business associate. He nodded politely and began to walk away.

Madame Giry followed, incensed, almost catching his heels with her shoes.

"Ha! Do not pretend that you do not wish to know about her. I can see right through you, _Erik_," she spat his name like a curse. He turned around sharply, his face inches from hers.

"What makes you think I care?" he snarled.

"Because it is the _only_ thing you care about!" she snapped back. Their noses were almost touching. "Why else would you be here?"

He did not answer. Madame Giry continued, "I can see it in your eyes now, you will not rest until you have claimed her soul once more, and sullied her again with your darkness… you _need_ to know about her, it's eating away at you!"

"You are a fool to think such a thing!"

"_I _am a fool!" she scoffed. "I can only see one fool here, Monsieur! Only a fool would return to the scene of his crime and allow himself to be so easily recognised!" She waved an angry hand in the direction of his black suit. "Or perhaps you still think yourself a ghost?"

For a moment he only stared, then he raised his shoulders in a hesitant shrug.

"I have been many things in my life, Madame, call me what you will… I suppose you have informed the _gendarmes_ of your whereabouts? Surely a woman of your intellect would not have followed a wanted murderer into the back streets of Paris?"

Her silence made him smile, it was a victory of little consequence, but all victories should be cherished. And cherish it he did.

"Enlighten me if you will, but be quick... I do not think either of us wants to become involved in a _tête-à-tête_!"

"You do not deserve to know!" she snapped.

Erik smirked and began to walk away.

"Running away again? You have an excellent talent at that, Monsieur!"

He stopped.

"I am not running, Madame, I am leaving. I have no desire to be in your company, and I am sure you are very eager to be free of mine… Are there no starved ballet rats for you to persecute and torture?"

"No, there is no Opera House. Perhaps you have forgotten –"

"Of course I haven't forgotten!" he growled, whirling round and facing her again. And then he said more quietly, "We all lost something that night…"

Madame Giry was sure she saw a change in his eyes then, sadness replacing the scorn, and he looked… sorry. But his fury snapped back when he saw her staring. And the monster was reborn.

"I cut all ties two years ago," he said, standing tall. "I will not beg you to tell me _anything_, you have deemed me unworthy to know and I shall respect your judgement. You have done well to remember what I am. But I have ways of finding out, Madame, never forget that!"

"You do not intimidate me, Erik."

"I do not? Well, you will have no trouble sleeping tonight then, will you?"

He gave her another nasty smile and then turned to walk away. He did not need this, she was hitting at too many of his weaknesses. He did not want to harm her; he just wanted to get away.

"Very well," she said heatedly. "I will tell you."

Erik stopped dead.

She thinned her lips. "But no more of your childish riddles and games! If I tell you this you must promise to leave us in peace… forever."

"I'm all ears," Erik said, keeping his back turned to her.

Madame Giry gulped and began to rub her top lip. She did not know what she was doing. Why was she going to tell him this? He was the cause of it all, and he had just said himself that he did not care!

_He was the cause of it all… and he did not care…_

She knew she would need to choose her words carefully. Erik was standing very still and there was something haunting about the way his breath danced upon the night air. It was as though Hades had lost his way, and now walked among them like an ordinary man…

That was it. That was _why_ he needed to know the truth. Erik was not a ghost … he was only a man. And all men needed to face up to the hurt they had caused and the lives they had ruined. Erik was no different, and it was only because he had been treated as such that horrible atrocities had been committed by his hands... by the hands of a man… not a ghost…

It was time for him to know exactly what he had done, the spirit needed to become flesh!

"Two months after the fire, everything fell apart. The havoc you caused did not die when you left. No, you made your mark! I knew you were many things, Erik, liar, extortionist, murderer … but _coward_ was never something I could bring myself to call you. It seems I was mistaken…"

"Enough of this," Erik spat. He began to move away again, feeling as if his shoes were sinking into the ground. This woman had words of poison, and they lanced their way into his heart, making it hot with guilt. He did not want to hear any of it, he did not want to think about the ruined lives, the deaths, or Christine's bruised eyes in the candlelight. The truth was disgusting, and he wanted to rip off his ears.

"Ha! See, he flees, yet again!"

"You have delighted me with insults for long enough!" he called over his shoulder. "I no longer care to hear your good opinion!"

"You really do not want to hear her fate? After everything you put her through?"

He did not answer, but he stopped walking. Madame Giry knew she had hit his nerve.

"Very well, but be quick," he snapped.

Madame Giry frowned and then continued, "After the fire everything changed. The world was a terrifying place for Christine. I had thought it all to be over, I thought we would be able to throw the ashes of those years away and move on, but I was wrong. One day Christine decided to… well, she became very distant and there was an accident… she fell on some ice." She saw his shoulders flinch.

"Continue," he said.

"She was wounded and so very ill for such a long time. When she finally awoke she could remember nothing of those last months at the Opera. She remembered her engagement to le Vicomte and their friendship as children. But she would not marry him; the blackness inside of her pushed him away. He was forced by his parents to marry another. He has left Paris forever."

"Why are you telling me this?" Erik asked, after a long, painful breath.

"Because you may have been able to move on, but _we_ have not. Sometimes people are too afraid of the past, and they cannot move into the future. Christine ruined her future because of her past… just as you have always done. We must all face what happened back then. Until then none of us will find peace!"

"Peace? I will _never_ be at peace," Erik hissed quietly, but then fell silent.

"Of course not," said Madame Giry shrewdly. "Not until the ghost has been buried forever. Christine's memories began to come back to her at first, but then there was nothing - only darkness. It seems she does not want to remember… it was that which drove a wedge between her and le Vicomte. Now she claims she can remember no more."

"What are you saying?" Erik asked, his voice dropping to a hollow whisper. Madame Giry had to take a breath before speaking again.

"I'm afraid she does not remember you, Erik. She has not mentioned you in nearly two years."

Erik was standing very still, his chest rising and falling heavily. It was as if a slow, deadly poison was consuming his organs, each one was now decaying - succumbing blindly to the infinite pain. And he felt everything with a chilling numbness.

Madame Giry spoke again softly, aware that the ground had turned to ice beneath her feet.

"I tried to find you once, long ago. I thought that seeing you again might help her to remember. But you had disappeared, and eventually her black melancholy lifted. She is very different now, she no longer jumps at shadows, she sleeps at night and she is strong. In fact, this is the most content I have ever seen her. I cannot allow you to ruin that for her. Not after everything she has been through." Her voice cracked, she sounded like she might cry. "That is why you must stay away, she cannot see you!"

Erik was struggling against the destruction that was taking over his body. He could feel his heart diminish into dust. _She did not remember__..._He had long ago accepted that they may never be together. He had accepted that he would never be with anyone. He had lived in his memories of her, loved his memories of her, he had lived in _their_ past. It had been his world for the last two years.

But surely, if only he remembered it, then it was only a half-truth. He had been the inhabitant of a half-dream, a wraith in a prison of his own making. She would never think of him, not even in anger. She had not been thinking about him at all! She didn't even hate him. To her, they had never existed in the same lifetime together. _He_ had never existed!

He wanted death to come now, quickly, and take him away from this pain!

"Why did you not tell her?" he said brokenly. "You should have told her… made her remember…" His voice was weak and desperate, unlike anything Madame Giry had ever heard before. It made her skin prickle up into gooseflesh.

"I nearly did, once," she confessed. "But then her spirits began to lift and she seemed so free, she was finally free… I did not know how she would react if I told her. I did not want anything to ruin her new life."

Erik lifted his head, and gave an evil bark of laughter. It was a toneless and hollow laugh, like a madman content in his delirium. He laughed because of the pain, and the insane irony. The world was a funny place, after all! And he was sure now that there was a God, one who played with his puppets with sick amusement. It was hilarious, really - he had been the keeper of Christine's mind for most of her career at the Opera, he had been the Shepherd, watching over her fragile soul through the night, binding her to him through shadows. And now, he was to her exactly what he had pretended to be for years - his most infamous part - a ghost…

…shadows and dust.

The laughter stopped as quickly as it started, and he had to fight against the aching throb in his eyes.

"I did not come back to ruin things for anyone…" His voice was hoarse. "You have my word…" He took a few steps, and then stopped. The gears in his brain kicked into action again and something about Madame Giry's tale didn't seem right.

_The ghost must be_ _buried forever…_

Madame Giry had said the words herself, and yet _she_ had not allowed Christine to move on. Christine had not confronted her demons – she was hiding and Madame Giry was sheltering her denial. He had seen Christine not a week ago and there was nothing free and strong about the small creature that had cowered in the candlelight, lost and utterly alone.

Something was not right. He turned to face her, seeing black murder.

"Do you think me a fool?" he hissed.

"Excuse me?"

"You are a fine actress, Madame. You were wasted in the ballet! Do you think me credulous enough to fall for such a farcical tale?"

"I have told you the truth; believe what you will - I am done with you… Be a ghost if you wish!"

She tuned to walk away, but Erik grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn around.

"Ah, yes… the ghost!" he mocked. "Ghosts will always come out of hiding at night, Madame. Do not forget that!"

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

He gave her a nasty smirk. "That you should take care, withholding information is a very dangerous pastime. Be mindful of the lies you tell… someone could get burned!"

"Is that a threat?"

"No, Madame, it is advice."

A hansom cab was approaching. Erik thrust her arm aside and signalled for it to stop, and after a short discussion he handed the driver a bag of coins.

"Here, take this cab home, it is not safe for a lady to be out in this part of the city alone," he looked her up and down. "Even one such as yourself… you never know who might be lurking nearby."

"Is that it?" she asked, staring in disbelief. "Do you not want to know anything else about Christine? Not even what she has been doing for the last two years?"

"I can see no reason for me to know such things. As you so _eloquently_ pointed out, we no longer exist to each other. I will forget her, just as she has forgotten me!"

Madame Giry was perplexed. She had expected more fight from him. She thought he would do anything to be in Christine's life again. She had half-expected him to push her out of the way, and charge off into the night to find Christine. She felt strangely disappointed in him, and angry, that he could not muster up enough strength to fight for the only thing he had ever loved!

She suddenly felt desperate, and hollow. Had he truly given up on the only person that could bring his redemption? Had his love for Christine been that empty? She wanted him to prove her wrong! To prove that nothing would stop him wanting Christine! And she was appalled with herself for feeling this way. It was most unwelcome, and it made her uneasy.

She shook her head, and made her way into the cab. Erik held the door open for her.

"You know, Monsieur, if your love for her is as strong and boundless as you always declared, you would ignore my warnings. The Erik I knew did not allow anything to stand in his way. The words of an old ballet mistress would do nothing to stop you… _if_ you really loved her, that is. Perhaps you are incapable of feeling anything but bitterness and hate."

"We both know that I am capable of many things," he said gravely, "but sometimes things change, Madame."

She smiled at him, almost sadly. "What happened to that man I knew?"

"I buried him."

He shut the door firmly. Madame Giry narrowed her eyes once more and nodded.

"Ah, I see, things really do change, then. Goodnight, Monsieur."

The cab sped away. Erik stood in the street and watched as it merged completely into the veils of shadow.

"Some things change, Madame," he said to himself. "But not everything…"

He turned and began to walk towards his building. There was too much to think about tonight. And he could feel a sharp pain in his brain; he needed liquor – and lots of it.

In fact, so caught up in his thoughts was he, that he didn't notice the small figure follow him across the street.

oOo

It had been stupid to follow that man. Christine knew it, but she had not been able to stop herself. She had seen him from afar when she had arrived to the café. At first he seemed to blend in with all of the other hats and jackets, but there was something about him, something about the way he walked and moved…

He was not like the others - he held himself differently … he seemed to be proud but also invisible. She had followed him unconsciously, bending to an instinct she did not recognise.

She had stalked him across the city; her feelings were a piece of elastic that would not snap. Wherever he went, she went. She was walking forever, street after street… unable to stop, unable to breathe… She wanted to speak to him, something about him called to her…

Then she had seen Madame Giry.

She crouched down behind a wall, sliding into the arms of shadow.

Why had been Madame Giry been following him too? What madness was this? The older woman addressed him with familiarity, and scorn.

They knew each other?

Cold dread began to trickle into her brain.

Then they spoke - each word a dagger in her mind…

Christine fell backwards into the gutter, her mind spinning. She grabbed her head and clamped it between her knees, trying to block out the world. But her brain was bleeding, and all she could do was hold on and try and outride the agony.

The mists around her mind were clearing, and their angry words were like acid in her ears. The past would not be shunned!

It was time…

She was falling backwards, an abyss was stretched out behind her, a deep pit of fate was calling to the dead vaults of her memory. A long finger was beckoning her to follow, daring her to enter the darkest of places of her mind, and she followed it... Every part of her screamed out helplessly. She tried to reach out, to grab at something to break her fall, but her descent was relentless.

Images pelted at her psyche. A masquerade, a mirror… a mask…

She dug her fingernails into her scalp, the images were stronger now. They seemed to flow together, a web of red roses, black shapes and angels. She could hear the music, it was so loud. Could they not hear it? Why did they continue to argue when such beautiful notes were being played? The music was everywhere, it surrounded her, it made its way through her veins, seeping into her soul. She could see a man playing this music, she approached him. He seemed so close, he _was_ so close, and she could almost touch his back… almost see his face… her fingertips brushed his shoulder, he began to turn around…

The angry voice of Madame Giry tore her away, and she was back to reality again. Cold, plain reality, she wished to return to the other place… the place of warmth, magic and darkness. She wanted to return… she had been trying to return…

_She had been trying to return to him… and she had fallen…_

Fear and solitude were thrust upon her instantly - a sad reunion with memories of a life cleanly forgotten. She was beginning to see the face of a man who had been everything to her, a man of fear, desire and torture.

She watched Madame Giry climb into a cab, and after a few more words she was gone. The man stood in the street for a moment, and then he made his way towards a dark building on the other side of the street. It was grey and dreary - nothing like the place she had just seen inside her mind.

But she could not let him get away; this man was the key to something.

It was dangerous, stupid and deadly, to follow a strange man into his apartment. Especially a man she had already seen displaying aggressive behaviour towards her adoptive mother.

But she did not feel scared, because this man was no stranger.

She had awoken from one dream, and fallen headlong into another.

The only dream there had ever been.

She remembered him.

oOo

Erik entered his small rooms in a dark rage. He threw his hat onto the small table by the door, then strode into the bedroom and tore off his suit jacket and cravat. The layers were suffocating; he needed to be rid of them.

Damn that infernal woman! She had no idea what she was talking about! It was probably another lie, a cheaply fabricated plot to keep him away – another way to keep the monster at bay!

This was all her fault; from beginning to end she was aware of his relationship with Christine. There had never been any ghosts or angels, and she knew it! And yet she had been happy to turn a blind eye and protect the mysterious demon. She had sheltered his secret as if it were her own! She had enjoyed the mystery, she had carried the notes and roses happily, smirking at the managers' confusion and Carlotta's screams!

She was the partner to all of his crimes. And now she tried to hide her own past with more lies and more deceit. She was leaving him alone in the cold with nothing but the rain.

He had decided to stay away - he had chosen to let Christine go! But now that this meddlesome woman had forbidden him to see her, it made him want to seek her out all the more. It was _his_ choice to stay away! Who was she to make demands of him? He would not follow her bidding or take orders. She had left him with very little choice, he would have to find them now, and punish them for forgetting him. He would seek them out and make them scream!

He ripped open the buttons of his waistcoat and ran his hands through his hair, yanking the mask off his face. He looked into the small mirror, a dishevelled rogue stared back, with bloodshot eyes and a face coiled with spite. Part of him snapped. He threw the contents of the table to the floor, smirking as it crashed unmercifully to pieces.

He kicked and smashed at the debris that was scattered around the room, like a feral and untamed animal.

He looked at the sketches, the notes, and the plans that were strategically pinned to the walls. He had been planning a man's demise, a contrived and calculated deceit. It was as if he had been seeing the world through a mirror and now he was back on the right side. What madness had bewitched his mind for these two years?

He had, unknowingly, been planning to ruin the father of Meg Giry's fiancée, thus delivering a crushing blow to Christine's best friend - her sister! Consciously or not, _he_ would have been the reason for her pain and fear. Would Christine have remembered him then? Would she have remembered the blood that stained his hands?

He was sickened by himself, by his actions, by his love…

He would not seek them out and he did not want to make anybody scream. He wanted freedom and Christine's smile. He wished that there was water holy enough to wash the blood from his soul - he wanted to find the strength to escape his own despair.

He wanted to be good…

…He wanted Christine.

He needed a drink. He entered the other room.

And there she was.

oOo


	17. A Rush of Blood

_AN: Sorry for the delay with this chapter, I didn't intend to leave it hanging for so long! I really hope you like it!_

_Big thanks to my beta GothAngelUK!_

* * *

_In secret we met—  
In silence I grieve,  
That thy heart could forget,_

_Thy spirit deceive_

_If I should meet thee,  
After long years,  
How should I greet thee?  
_

_With silence and tears._

- Lord Byron –'When We Two Parted.'

oOo

_**A Rush of Blood**_

oOo

He froze.

She was there in front of him, his soul in the form of blood, flesh and bone…_Christine._

He was beyond shock, all emotion momentarily paralysed. Was this a trick of the light? Was his madness so advanced that he now saw her everywhere? He tried to blink, to chase away this demented reality – but she would not fade. Had she finally returned to him? Was this his prize for the years spent in solitude and misery? To have Christine Daae waiting in his doorway, finally finding him in the layers of black mist…

Erik could not accept this; it was as if she were a ghost, showing herself to him for the first time. Her eyes were hollow and black like coal. Her gaze did not leave his face.

Madame Giry's words crawled back into his mind. _She has not mentioned you in nearly two years…_

Oh, yes! How had he forgotten that charming detail? He was a stranger to her, he must remember that…

He slowly tried to pull himself together, his eyes never leaving her face.

"You seem to be lost, Mademoiselle," he managed at last; his voice was low and odd in this claustrophobic silence. "The street is that way," he pointed behind her to the hallway. She did not move, but her mouth shifted a little. He could not tell if it was a smile or a frown. "I'm afraid you are quite lost."

She continued to stare at him; the sound of his voice seemed to make her breathing more laboured. He watched the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

"No, I am not lost," she said. And he felt his bones melt under the influence of that perfect voice.

They both continued to stare.

They were only feet apart, but their feelings were closer than they had ever been before.

The pulse in Christine's head began to quicken, the ache transforming into a momentous throb. It was all there, unravelling behind her eyes.

She remembered him…

She remembered the music, the singing and the conflict. She remembered the darkness. She recalled the blind and obsessive love, the haunting resonance of his song, the memorable melody that possessed her body... Raoul's neck in a noose, a man hanging from the ceiling of the Opera… This man had been her mentor, her angel and a ghost, the cause of all pleasure and pain in her life.

He had been the ruler of every dream, the owner of every nightmare and the commander of all darkness!

And now, there seemed to be only a man in front of her. A scruffy man with tousled hair and a scowling face. Part of her could not make the connection between the man in her mind, and the man who stood before her now. But somehow her soul knew they were the same. This was him.

He stood before her, in this strange apartment on the outskirts of Paris. It was nothing like the place he had inhabited before. He was not a ghost, and there was no music filling her soul, no candles quivering in the haunting light. No beckoning finger pulling her into the gloom; there was no voice inside her head… just an untidy space with bottles and papers lining the floor. She couldn't see any music...

It was only a man before her. Not an angel, not a ghost… just a man.

The irony was almost too painful.

Her body ached, and she finally understood. _This_ was the feeling that had been missing. The pulsation that had plagued her for so long finally had a name. Yes, she understood now - _he _had been what was missing in her life. The desire, fear and devotion he conjured in her had been missing. No, not missing - hidden. It had been there all along, the raw throb that she had chosen to ignore.

But she remembered now, and it was terrifying. Terrifying because she was sure she would die if it was taken away again. She did not know if she wanted it, but she could not breathe without it.

Her soul was entwined with his. She knew that now; never before had she believed anything so ardently.

"May I ask what brings you to my rooms, Mademoiselle?" he asked, his voice breaking through her mist. His body was now rigid. His eyes had narrowed.

"You," was her simple reply. "You bring me here."

Long moments passed. Neither said another word.

Erik could see her mind awakening to the demons of her past, and the realisation of what her life had been seemed to hit him like a ton of falling masonry.

She was only in her twentieth year, sometimes he forgot this. So much had been asked of this poor, unhappy girl. And he, who loved her above all others, had been the main culprit in her despair.

It was no wonder her mind had given up.

He realised that he was nearly double her years in age; she had only been on this earth half as long as he. And she had endured nearly as much misery. Her poor soul had been pulled and prodded. She had been pursued by two suitors, so blinded by their love of her and hatred of each other that they had made her into a trophy of gold and purity.

But she was only a girl, a tired, beautiful, damaged girl who needed to be put back together…

He wanted to hold her, now more than ever.

"Erik," he heard her say; she was looking at the floor, her lovely face pulled into a frown. Erik remained silent. She appeared to be talking to herself - not to him. She began to rub her forehead. She looked up at him suddenly with tears rimming her large eyes.

"Erik?"

He nodded. She looked at the floor again, he watched as her tears fell against the wooden floorboards, splashing like diamonds. He could not move, he did not know how she would react if he moved.

Christine's mind was spinning. And she saw that fateful night two years ago so clearly. The images surged through her like blood through a slashed vein. There had been ice, and she was running, running back to the exhilarating cage that was her life with Erik. She had been near madness at the time, thinking of nothing but the music. The hypnotising rhythm that called her back again and again…

She had been trying to return to him. To a man who had taken so much, a man who had killed, terrorized, and claimed her life for so many years. He had taken so much from her, and _still_ she had been trying to return. Was it to him? Or to the music he had placed inside her soul?

But looking at him now, her heart told her again that these things did not matter, that he could be mended, just like it had whispered to her on that cold night two years ago.

But her heart was a liar, a deceitful cheat that made her yearn for this man against her own will. Did he care about what he had done? Had he turned his soul out to the Heavens and asked for forgiveness?

But what of the terrible horrors that had been committed against him, should society not be held accountable for damaging a man's soul so deeply that he could no longer see himself? Was it really all his fault?

She was bleeding inwardly for him, with sorrow, remorse and anger. But she also bled for herself, because she wanted him and she could not cure it. It could not be helped…she was infected…

Her sanity was crumbling, and she felt the fall, the floor had given way, and she fell into a pit of black fire. The flames did not burn - they froze, capturing her soul in a deadly hold, and there were two hands reaching out to try and hold her, trying to pull her back into that pool of darkness… she pushed them away. No! She did not want them, she did not want it!

"No!"

Erik stood back; Christine's shriek was a lance in his heart. He held his hands up, to show that he would not try to touch her again. She was repulsed by him! And he was disgusted with himself for trying to touch her.

And then he realised, _he was not wearing his mask_. She had seen his face and now she wanted to run. Run away from the monster in his pit! He had been wrong to think that she had come here out of anything other than pity. She wanted to run, she had come back to feed her inquisitiveness, and now she wanted to flee!

How had he forgotten those curious little fingers that had snatched the mask from his face, leaving him naked and abandoned in front of the whole world? He was naked again now, naked before her perfect eyes. But he would not move to cover himself – let her look! Let her feast her eyes upon the horror!

"I should never have come here," she said, swallowing a great gulp of tears. She could not look at him, this was all too much. It was as though she had hit a brick wall and now hot blood was running over her face, mixing with her tears and poisoning her throat. She needed to leave, she needed air…

She forced her eyes to look at him, and felt her heart snap anew. It was wrong to hurt this much just by looking at someone, it was appalling that she wanted to soothe his grief and hold him, and it was wrong that all she could think about was running away and leaving him here in the darkness…

"Forgive me," she sobbed, before turning to leave the room.

Erik snapped, and a red mist turned his soul into something dark. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back inside. She yelped in pain as he slammed the door shut and pulled her closer to him. They reeled to the middle of the room and he thought her tiny arm would snap in his fingers – but he could not stop himself. He forced her small fingers against the hot, mangled flesh of his face.

"Do not be afraid," he sneered through gritted teeth. "Touch it, satisfy that _charming_ curiosity of yours!" She was still crying, but did not turn away, her eyes obeyed him and she looked only at his face. "There are no angels here, Mademoiselle, just this! Do you remember me now?"

He held her hand harder against his cheek "Do you remember this putrid, disgusting flesh that offends you so? I'm just a man, not quite as exiting now, is it? No angels, no demons or ghosts…_just a man_!" The unscarred side of his face was twisted into a fuming coil of outrage. The blood had risen to his cheeks and made his entire visage red. For the first time the two sides of his face looked akin to one another.

Christine could feel his hot breath on her face. She hated him for talking to her like this, for his anger and for his self-hatred. And as her fingertips felt the ruined skin, she became even more afraid, because it was not revulsion she felt. This wasn't the skin of a monster. He was right; it was the skin of a man. And she was more afraid of the man than she had ever been of the ghost. Every feeling she had ever had for him seemed to rise like a wild current in her stomach, and she thought she might vomit.

Erik threw her hand away savagely and turned his back to her - ashamed of himself. He had just declared himself a man, and yet he chose to act like that black monster he had left in the abyss.

Christine sank to onto her knees, and held her head in her trembling hands. She felt as though her heart was dripping out onto the floor. And she was both sickened and shocked that she already missed the feel of his warm skin on her palm. But she could not bring herself to look upon his outrageous grief.

"Do you hate me?" he asked, turning around, the harsh tone of his voice hurt her. "Is it pure, venomous hate that flows in your veins? Is _that _why you have come back? Do you mean to torment me?"

She shook her head, eyes still at the floor.

"Fear then! Yes, that's it! _Fear_, I must really scare you to make you tremble so!" He was pacing around her now, and she felt he could strike again at any moment.

"No," she said in a harsh whisper, swallowing hard. "It's much worse, much worse than _either_ of those things… you cannot comprehend all of the things I feel!"

Her tears had dried, and she turned her large, swollen eyes upon him. She had killed his spiteful words with her own, and she saw the hostility die in his eyes. She wanted to hurt him, to scare him, to make him cry! To do all of the things to him that he had done to her.

She put her hand over her mouth. Over her words, as if it would help her to swallow them back down. She could not say everything she wanted to say, everything she didn't know she was feeling. She could not tell this stranger, this friend, all of the things that were caught in the cobwebs of her mind.

Something snapped inside, and she realised then that she was afraid, but not of the man in front of her - she was afraid of the ghost she had created inside herself. The ghost she was seeing again for the first time in two years. But he was not a ghost, she had touched his skin -- he was only a man.

Christine began to rise on her feet, she could feel her bones trembling as she tried to deposit her weight onto her two shaking legs. She emerged slowly from her cocoon of sorrow, leaving her dismal past in a pool on the floor. She felt the petals fall, reality was cold, and she was left feeling naked and adrift.

Something was born from that coldness and isolation - a sense of need. A basic huger to be touched, held and cared for. It was not savage lust, and it was not tender devotion. It was something else, something necessary, as essential to the body as breathing.

She kept her gaze at Erik. He was standing by the wall, his scowling eyes studying her every movement. His arms were folded, and his face set into a glare. But as she looked at him she saw the aggression drip away, it was a defensive stance, a desperate grasp at self-preservation. He was scared too.

She began to walk towards him, feeling as if she could fall at any second. Her ankles were brittle and her knees trembled. Erik remained frozen still, but his eyes were alive, watching every move she made.

She reached him, and it was painful to be so close. She could smell him, not the musky cologne - it went beyond that. She could smell his skin and his hair. His scent was warm, familiar and foreign. She inhaled it like oxygen. She knew him so well, and also not at all.

Slowly, she moved her fingers to his lips. He watched her hand, and his pupils grew wide as she touched him. She traced the shape of his mouth. His lips were warm, moist at the corner and dry in the middle. Her caress caused his bottom lip to quiver, and she felt the tremor carry on through her arm, into her heart. The ghost came to life beneath her fingers, and in that small touch she saw again that it was only a man before her.

She became aware of herself, and moved her hand away. A pink flush smothered her cheeks. Erik was still watching, calm and still, but inside his pulse was on fire.

He moved his hand now, hesitantly, fearing she would scream and run away. But she did not, she simply watched him, as he had watched her. He grasped at a lock of her hair, the silky surface slid through his fingers and he held onto the tip of it, cherishing the feel and memorising the texture. He reluctantly let it drop and it floated back to rest against her shoulder.

He watched it fall, and then turned his eyes to hers. His insides flinched a little when their eyes met. And he knew then that this beautiful moment would not last. She would move away, or he would, fearing that if he did not, she would first. It was an emotional war, each one trying to hold out, daring the other one to move first. She would move soon, he knew it. She would awaken, see his face and scream, or worse, she would cry. And she would not let him comfort her.

He knew inside that she had already won; there was nothing he could do. He would always let her win.

Christine rose onto her tiptoes, and placed her lips where her fingers had caressed his mouth. She held them there for a moment; her lips were dry and cool at first, but as she held them pressed against his, they became warm. It was not the same as the passionate, soul-shattering kiss she had given him in the Opera basement. It was curious and cold, as if she needed to prove to herself that he was real. He found himself leaning into her, responding to the feel of her lips upon his.

She pulled away, and Erik stumbled back until he hit the wall. Christine held her fingers against her lips, as if she was trying to calm a fire.

Then she moved away and ran her hands through her hair roughly, with frustrated anger that seemed to rise from nowhere.

The confusion she felt was ripe and unwanted; she did not know why she had come here. She wished she did not know any of this! It was all too intense – too real. She could not speak, there were no words that could calm this revelation or change what she had found.

Where had he been for these two years? There was a sour, angry heat inside of her, spreading out over her shoulders and her neck. She looked at Erik. His cool eyes had transformed into something dark and seething. She wanted to run into him, she wanted to beat her fists against him until her anger diminished. She wanted to pull his face to hers and kiss him, all of him, his scars and his neck and his mouth.

…and she wanted to run away from him, and pretend these feelings did not exist.

But then a sick feeling caught in her throat, she had willingly walked into Erik's home. He had closed the door behind them, but _she_ had come here. Nobody knew she was here – she didn't even know where she was. She felt alternately hot and cold, what if he should choose to keep her here? What if he tried to force her into another awful dress and carry her away into the night? She would be lost forever, and nobody would know. Raoul was no longer a heartbeat behind her, there was no saviour for her to run to – she only had herself.

She looked at Erik, and the pain in his eyes told her that he had read her mind.

"The door is unlocked," he said coldly. "You can leave whenever you choose." He turned around to face the wall, she was about to leave, he knew it, and he could not watch her go – not again.

He heard her hesitant footsteps, and for a moment she seemed to be coming closer, he could feel her warmth close to him. But then the footsteps retreated, and the door opened and closed softly.

She was gone.

Erik moved his hand to his mouth, feeling his lips were still spiced with her kiss.

It was the only thing that proved to him that she had come back.

oOo

Christine walked out of the building. She did not know where she was going or where she was, but she carried on walking; the noises of the night did not scare her - not anymore. She felt as though she was walking in the daylight. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and there was a nervous tension in her veins that made her want to explode.

She did not want to think of him, so instead she thought about everything else… the Opera, Peter and Meg, her mother… but each route her mind took seemed to end with his face, and each voice seemed to turn into his…

He was inside her mind again; his voice was inside her blood…

And the chilling thing was that she did not mind. In fact, she wanted him to be there, it felt comfortable somehow – like home.

She managed to hail a solitary hansom cab, and fought tears all the way home.

She entered the house quietly. There was no sign of Meg or Madame Giry, so she went straight to her room and closed the door.

Alone in the dark room, she began to cry.

She felt hurt and calm, almost serene in her own melancholy. She knew that perhaps one day, or in another lifetime, they could leave that building together. One day there would be a way to cleanse all of the pain; she knew that one day she would look into his eyes and see the light there. One day she would be able to take his hand and hold it against her heart – and know that she had made him whole.

But not yet ... not on this night.

She had finally released the ghost. And what was left growing inside scared her even more.

oOo


	18. Café Medicis

AN: Hello, if anyone is still reading this fic I'm so sorry for the delay. I won't bore you with excuses, but I promise not to leave it as long until the next update! (And to think; I wanted to have this story all wrapped up by Christmas!)

As usual, huge thanks to my beta, Goth Angel UK :)

* * *

_They say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself._

- Andy Warhol.

oOo

_**Café Medicis**_

oOo

Christine could feel her heart pounding all the way down to her fingertips. It was strange to be here, in this crowded place, where people laughed and talked as if nothing had changed at all, as if nothing was altered. She was jealous of them. For her the world was a new and alien place that would never be the same again.

This new world was too real, too obnoxious and too quiet. She could hear everything with a startling clarity - each water drop, each footstep and each voice seemed to be echoing painfully. Gone was the muffled perception of a life lived within a dream, gone was the ignorance of life in madness. It was all gone. And she did not recognise this girl who was swimming against the current of reality. Her mind was moving forward, but her heart and soul were yearning to drown.

She sat in a quiet corner of the café, her small hands clasped around her tea cup; her gloves lay discarded on the seat next to her. She wondered if he would come, or whether he had received her letter at all. Her mind had been unravelling at such a momentous pace that her feelings could not keep up, and what she felt and thought were no longer swimming in unison. But there were things she needed to say to him, she felt that she owed him an explanation at the very least. But whether he would choose to hear it remained a mystery.

She had decided to keep her new-found knowledge a secret from Madame Giry and Meg – for the moment at least. There would be too many questions to answer, and she would be forced to confront things she did not yet want to face. She had said that the roses were a gift from Mathieu, which was not a lie, and she tried to remain indifferent to the red petals and burning memories which stirred every time she walked past the vase.

She had also told them that she was feeling much better; which was also partly true. But she tried to hide the fact that although the revelations of two nights prior had released some ghosts, there was a new weight in her soul that was even worse than the previous one.

There seemed to be a change in Madame Giry too; she was constantly asking if Christine was all right, and where she had been, and if she had seen anyone she knew. Christine knew what the older woman's fear was, but at the moment she could not bring herself to tell Madame Giry that it was too late…that she had already seen him.

The masked ghost was gone from her mind; the truth had dissolved him into nothing. In his place there was a man with a naked face and angry eyes… a man who would not leave her mind. He was everywhere - hissing at her through the fire, pleading in her dreams and staring at her through the eyes of every man she passed. In a strange way she wanted the ghost back; she wanted to see the mask again and feel the comfort of an angel. She knew those men, and in a way, she was safe because each one was so unattainable. But now everything was real, and the only man left was the one that she did not know at all, but the one who had been the essence of all of the others – the man who had been part of everything she had ever loved.

"Bonjour, Christine."

The voice sent a ripple of shock through her body, and she looked up with a start. She was shocked by the stinging disappointment that surged through her.

"Mathieu," she said, trying to smile. "Thank you for coming."

He nodded and moved to sit opposite her. Her place in the corner of the room meant that Mathieu had to slide awkwardly to fit his tall frame into the small space between the wall and the table. The waitress came and he ordered some more tea. When she had left he turned his embarrassed face towards Christine.

"I must confess that it was a shock to hear from you – a welcome shock, but a shock all the same. I thought you were angry with me," he said, blushing slightly.

"No," she said quietly, and he noticed that there was crystal clarity to her voice that had not been there before. "Not anymore… that's why I wanted to talk to you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I – I wanted to say thank you - and sorry…" her smile turned downwards. "You have been a good friend to me these last months and I was unforgivably rude the last time I saw you."

"Christine, it is all right, I understand… you don't have to –"

"No, I do. Please, don't make excuses for me. I must apologise for my behaviour just like anyone else… You have helped me in so many ways, and I am very grateful to you. That day, the day you called by with the roses – it turned out to be a very strange day. After you left – well, it came back to me. All of it… it all came back." She suddenly seemed to be very far away.

Mathieu's face dropped with shock; he was unable to take in what she was saying to him. She continued, but could no longer meet his eyes, "I do not wish to speak about the details, or what happened. But I remember it all. It is as clear to me as you are now."

"Everything?" he asked sceptically.

"Yes," she said with a small smile. "Everything."

There was a long silence, and the chatter of the neighbouring tables was suddenly painfully loud. A child began to cry, and two women in a distant corner gave a wild cackle of laughter. The clear sounds cut through Christine, shaking her out of the dreamy reserve that had been smothering her. She was strangely disorientated, like waking from a thick sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

"Do you remember… _him_?" Mathieu asked. Christine's eyes snapped to him. She could feel her palms clam up with cold sweat.

The breath caught in her throat. She could not tell Mathieu that she had seen Erik – she _would _not. One word would be all it would take; and then the hunt for the Phantom would resume.

The very thought of it pierced her heart painfully.

"Yes, I do. But I do not want to talk about him. It happened a long time ago and there is nothing left to say. It's over now."

"Do you think he's…?"

"He is dead," she said before she could stop herself. "There is no danger now… I am free."

A warm smile spread across Mathieu's face and he nodded, accepting her answer more humbly than she could ever have imagined – she was shocked by the relief she felt.

"You don't know how happy it makes me to hear you say that," he smiled. "You are really free, Christine!"

Christine smiled and nodded; even though she knew that she was not.

They both sipped their tea, looking around the room at the other tables. Christine found that she couldn't stand the awkward silence.

"Do you have any news?" she asked brightly.

Mathieu's face seemed to come alive. "Yes, I do, actually. I am going to Germany for a while, there are some exiting new ideas being tested that I want to be involved with… I don't think there is anything else for me to learn here."

"It sounds wonderful, when do you leave?"

"In two days."

Christine smiled. Mathieu had not been a huge part of her life, and she still did not know how she felt about him. But she was saddened to hear that he was leaving. She supposed it was because his company had always seemed safe, one small piece of security at a time when her life had seemed so cold and uncertain.

_People always leave…_ she thought sadly.

_But not all of them… _her mind whispered … _some do come back…_

She shook her head to chase the words away.

"Do you believe in the soul?" she asked suddenly. Mathieu looked bemused.

"I'm not sure," he said, rubbing his chin. "I used to, before I became a follower of science. I would certainly like to think so… it would be nice to have a deeper, undying platform to house our deepest desires and wishes… but, are the heart and the soul not the same thing?"

Christine laughed. "No, but they are connected." And then her face grew serious. "May I ask you one more question? And then we can shed the roles of doctor and patient forever."

"Of course, you can ask me anything."

She bit her lip. "What would you do if you felt something, something that you know you shouldn't… something that scares you - but you can't kill it, or ignore it – should you starve it and hope it will go away? Or feed it… and destroy everything?"

She looked at Mathieu, wide-eyed and nervous. It took a moment for him to take in what she had said. He sipped his tea, and then said calmly, "As a doctor, I would tell you that such feelings are unhealthy. I would advise you to use the codes of sense and society to distance yourself from them – surrendering to such intense emotion could hinder your recovery. Any form of addiction is unhealthy and you should be strong and stamp it out…"

She nodded, accepting his answer - and swallowing past the painful lump that had formed in her throat.

"-But as a man, and a friend… I would tell you that nothing will go away just because you choose not to look directly at it. You must face it, even if it hurts. Only then will you be happy. And if feelings don't go away, well – then they are probably there for a reason."

Christine was staring into her cup and Mathieu wondered what was happening inside that curious mind.

"I should go," he said, standing. "I still have much to do. Can I walk you home?"

"No, thank you. I think I'll sit here a little longer."

She stood up to embrace him, knowing that she would never see him again.

"Can I write to you?" he asked. "Just as a friend."

"Of course. I would like that very much."

He fixed his hat into place and then straightened out his jacket. They said their farewells to each other and then he turned and left the café. Christine watched him go; he stopped in the doorway to let two other gentlemen inside. And then he was gone.

The two figures that had entered the café remained in the doorway. And as her gaze fixed upon them, Christine felt an iron weight drag her heart to the floor.

They had seen her too.

oOo

It was a painfully bright November day, and the cold sun cast a bright glow over the whole of Paris. The city seemed to be charged with an afterglow, and the jaunty city folk were facing the world with even more irritating cheer than usual.

Erik strode along in time with the rest of them, hiding as much as he could under the brim of his hat. But it was anger, not happiness, which drove him along the boulevard with such determination.

He did not dare look another living being in the face. He was scared that this ripe, poisonous anger would make him crush them all like a fistful of summer berries.

There were many types of anger, he mused. And he was perfectly sure he had felt them all in his miserable, degrading life. But this toxic, dull throb was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It churned away inside, causing a sour ache to lance through him with every breath. It was a stench rising through his veins, crushing his own blackness and creating something worse. Something too real - something he dared not name. It ached like guilt and stank like shame.

Christine's face was there every time he closed his eyes, like a half-remembered dream plaguing him in the daylight. He found himself trying to loathe her, to make her the face of his torment and rage, to make her into something so hideous and abject that he would not want to waste one breath on loving her!

But he found that he could not. He was trying to hate her, to blame her, so much that his eyes wept with blood. But as much as the thought of her enraged him – it also soothed him, and his hate and love were in a deadly limbo that could not snap.

What a strange paradox she was, _dear little Christine_. She seemed to be full up to the eyes with innocence and compassion, and yet her actions were colder than the stone of a prison floor. There were times when her eyes seemed to hold a gentle, quivering love - a fragile light that could bring him home. But it was a look that was extinguished as soon as reality called upon it to act. And she would gouge his eyes out for daring to gaze at her, and leave him to writhe and die in the darkness.

After she had left, he had stayed huddled on the floor for a whole day and a night, shuddering amongst the debris of his prior rage - scratching at his arms and scalp as he wept tears of devotion and shame. The air had retained her scent, and he had breathed it in and out. It had taken him two years to clear her from his nostrils - and now her enchanting aura surged through him like a blind fire. She had kissed him again, and left … leaving nothing but pain and unanswered questions. And should he just let her walk away? Should he not seek her out and punish her?

Or would the greatest punishment be no punishment at all?

She could keep her beauty and her capricious actions - he would not chase her; he would not pursue her… She remembered him now. Perfect! Let her go mad with thinking and with terror - let her fear drive her mad! Let her jump at shadows and imagine him in the mirror. He would not be there. Her mind would be the demon – not him! There would be no Erik to blame, not this time.

He would not torment her again, to do so would be to make everything she believed him to be a reality. It would be saving her, gratifying her fear and making her a victim, giving her more reasons to loathe him. And he would not allow her to do that – not this time.

If she wanted to evade the darkness, she would need to learn to do so by herself … _he_ would not push her into hell. She would have to accept the daylight like he had had to.

He could not turn back now… and neither could she.

The letter he carried was burning a hole in his pocket, branding itself onto his soul.

…_It is a deep regret of mine that I was unable to attend your dinner party … please accept my humblest apologies…_

He had felt ill writing those words, words of gratitude and remorse – submissive, meek apologies for being a coward. He resented having to write the letter at all! But he could not bear to think of Edgar being disappointed in him. The old man had shown him genuine kindness, and Erik wanted to do all he could to preserve that memory.

He had signed the letter with his new name… _Erik Larsson _– another false identity_. _He had written the letters proudly, it was strange to suddenly have an alias that did not require a mask of hostility. This name required him to be a gentleman, nothing more.

_Larsson…_

He could hear the damned name beating away inside his head, afraid that he might forget and become the Phantom once more.

_Larsson!_

It called again, but louder this time – more frenzied. The sound was itching inside his ears like dried blood, and he could feel the muscles in his neck begin to tighten.

_Larsson!_

"Larsson! For God's sake, man! Turn around!"

The voice was different now, a human voice, coming from behind him. Erik turned around to see Edgar shuffling through the crowds towards him. Fantastic - this was just what he needed. He hadn't actually wanted to see the old man! Just to post the letter through his door and depart safely and unseen. But that was clearly no longer an option. He painted on a stiff smile – the polite gentleman once more.

"Why, Monsieur Lockhart! What a charming coincidence, I was just on my way to call on you."

Spot on, he was even starting to fool himself!

"Ah, then it seems I've saved you the journey!" the old man laughed.

"Quite," Erik smiled. "I wanted to apologise, Monsieur, for my being unable to attend your dinner party. I was delayed by some old acquaintances." It wasn't entirely untrue.

"Yes, what a shame that was…" Edgar said, taking the monocle from his eye and holding it up to the sunlight. Erik noticed that there was no lens. "…It was rather good fun! But never mind, we'll just have to make sure you can attend the next one!" he replaced the object to his eye and continued smiling at his new friend.

Erik felt a strange pressure tingle inside his soul… _N__ext one?_ There was to be another invitation? He was oddly pleased and entirely ashamed. What would Edgar say if he knew who he really was? Or the reason he had come back to Paris for…

The boulevard was becoming crowded; a large burly man barged into Edgar as he passed the stationary duo. The old man was disorientated for a few moments and seemed to loose his footing. Erik rushed to help him, scowling and trying to find the assailant amongst the crowd, but the brute had disappeared.

"Let us get off the street," Edgar said, looking around for somewhere to hide from the throbbing multitude "…Ah, over there…Café Medicis! What a charming place it is, will you join me, Larsson?"

Erik felt terrified by this suggestion; the streets were free, and if anyone should recognise him there would be a chance of escape. Inside that café he would be trapped… cornered and vulnerable, nothing more than a rabbit in a snare.

But against every rational thought inside his body he heard himself acquiesce, spurred by a deep obligation to help the old man escape the claustrophobic mayhem of the boulevard.

His mind was screaming at him to stop. He was a fool! A sentimental fool who was now helping the very man he had come here to ruin… But his feet would not let him stop. And he had taken the old man by the arm and was leading him towards the café door. He nodded instinctively at the man who held the door open for them, as if some part of him knew how to act.

As they went inside he was blinded by faces, and the warm air of tea and pastries was in stark opposition to that of the smoke and dust outside. It was a warm, pleasant smell, and Erik breathed it in, allowing the aroma to caress the deepest crevices in his lungs. The people inside paid him no heed. They were not looking at him; he was of no interest to any of them. He let his body relax a little. The other people were curled into their own conversations, nobody was looking at him.

He took a moment to take in their faces; all of them looked slightly familiar, but he knew he had never seen any of them before. It was that strange mix of slight recognition and instant dismissal that passes through the mind when analysing the face of a stranger.

Edgar had let go of his arm and was now waving wildly at a woman in the far corner.

But the woman was not looking at Edgar … she was looking directly at Erik.

For a moment he almost smiled, forgetting the world and what had happened two nights ago. For the slightest moment the circumstances and the past did not matter – they were in a world beyond all that. And he was just happy to see her.

But the look on her face reminded him of everything. He felt as though he had eaten a salad of nettle and thorns and now his insides were crumbling and burning – his soul was asphyxiating with the toxins that now contaminated his body.

She was walking towards them slowly. Her face white and ashen, she was trying to smile, to appear normal, but Erik could tell that she felt the same icy terror as he did.

"Miss Daae!" Edgar exclaimed with glee. "What a pleasant surprise!"

She took his hands and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes remaining downcast so that she did not have to look Erik in the face. He could see her mind trying to calculate how these two men knew each other. How the Phantom had once again forced his way into her life…

"Was that your young man we passed on the way in?" Edgar asked innocently, with the tone of a grandfather addressing his granddaughter. "Annette did not tell me that you were being courted!"

It was an innocent question, but suddenly the air was heavy – like being below water.

"No," Christine said urgently, avoiding Erik's eyes. "No, he is not. He is just a friend of mine."

"Ah, I see. You must be cautious when choosing a suitor, Miss Daae. A beautiful girl like you must have a line queuing around the quarter!"

Christine looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her. All Erik could do was stand there awkwardly, refusing to believe this was actually happening.

"Forgive me, I am being terribly rude. I haven't introduced the two of you!"

They both winced violently.

"Larsson, this is Mademoiselle Daae, the sister – of sorts – to Peter's fiancé."

Erik stepped forward mechanically, following the instincts of a gentleman. Christine offered her hand, and let his fingers curl around hers, and lift them gently. Erik had to remind himself to breathe as he ghosted his lips over her knuckles for a fracture of the second.

"Mademoiselle Daae – this is my friend, Erik Larsson."

"A pleasure, Mademoiselle," Erik said with a small smirk, trying to remain the aloof, taciturn stranger Edgar believed him to be. But the shock of being introduced as someone's 'friend' sent an uneasy quiver through him.

"It is lovely to make your acquaintance, _Monsieur Larsson__,_" Christine said with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Erik did not want to let go of her hand.

Christine could not accept what was happening. To see him here, in the daylight, in a crowded café was a reality she could not adjust to, she felt naked and hollow. How did he know Edgar? Had he done this on purpose?

But if he had, why did he seem as stunned as her?

She had spent two days thinking about him, analysing each terrible fragment of her past, trying to decipher what was happening inside her soul, needing to know why she ached with the disturbing cocktail of guilt, hurt and desire.

And he was suddenly here, in front of her eyes, as brazen as the bright sun on a winter morning.

She suddenly realised that Edgar was the link to it all – Erik must have been with Edgar that night, and Madame Giry had recognised him. This realisation did not help; it seemed to only make things worse.

"Let us all sit and have some tea!" Edgar exclaimed cheerfully.

Christine suddenly felt an achy panic flutter in her chest; she was scared Erik would turn down Edgar's suggestion – that he would make his excuses and leave. And despite everything, she did not want him to. There was a guilty fear growing inside of her that if he left now there would never be another excuse to be in his company again. She might never find him again.

To her surprise, and shameful relief Erik agreed, and the three of them made their way towards a table. Erik held out a chair for her, and she smiled in thanks. She noticed that he stepped away the moment she sat down. Scared to touch her again in case she burned him, no doubt.

Christine found herself wishing that he would sit next to her – not opposite. At least if he sat next to her she would not have to look into his eyes. But to her horror both of her companions sat opposite her – she painted on a sweet smile, but inside she wanted to cry.

As they all sat, Christine found herself in the startling, oddly humorous situation of having afternoon tea with the Phantom – with Erik. The man who had once been the source of so much fear, it was all so outrageous that she felt the sudden need to laugh, to free her body of the pressure growing inside her lungs… but as she looked over at Erik the humour died on her face. He was coiled with tension, every sinew poised – as if waiting for capture and death. And she suddenly saw that what was normal for her was completely alien for him.

He was in her world now – with people and daylight. She wanted to reach across the table and touch him, but she did not dare to take his hand.

"What have you been occupying yourself with on this fine day, Monsieur Lockhart?" she asked, desperate for some form of conversation – anything was better than the growing silence.

"I have spent the morning at the old Opera House," Edgar said with a grin.

She was wrong, there was always something worse.

She could not bring herself to ask about the project, not with Erik here! But Edgar was looking at her expectantly…

"May I ask what business you have with the Opera?" Erik asked, just as the waitress arrived with the pot of tea Edgar had ordered. She filled their cups with the steaming liquid and left.

When Christine looked at Erik she found that his eyes were not aimed at Edgar. He was staring at her, and the hurt and anger in his eyes was enough to make her want to run from the table. She did not dare to pick her cup up; instead she clasped her shaking hands together in her lap.

Edgar, who was oblivious to the tension around him, answered with his usual enthusiasm, "I have connections with the Opera House in London. The owners there recommended me to the new owners in Paris, and they have brought me in as an advisor – of sorts. We are hoping to begin the reconstruction within the next few months."

"How fascinating," Erik smirked, with an inflection that made Christine shudder.

"Yes, it will be restored to its former glory, we plan to follow the old plans almost exactly… do not fear, Miss Daae, I will have you back on that stage in no time at all!"

"No," Christine said in alarm. "No, I can't!"

Both of them stared at her then: Edgar shocked, Erik betrayed. Christine did not expect the pang of guilt that seemed to resonate through her entire being. The blood turned cold in her veins. She could almost hear the betrayal that played upon Erik's face.

_The only good thing I have given the world… the only beauty I can take credit for… and you would deny it!_

"…I-I mean to say that I am out of practice... Which is something I will need to remedy." She gave them a useless smile, and was relived when they both seemed to accept the answer.

"Well, we'll see," Edgar said kindly. "It seems to be a good investment, but to be honest, it's more a labour of love for me… Paris just isn't the same without her Opera House. I cannot wait to see her restored – I just hope that damned ghost doesn't return!"

Christine saw Erik freeze; he was a startled deer held at gunpoint, almost accepting death before the trigger had been pulled.

"That was all nonsense," she said, with a strength she did not recognise. "The ghost is dead. There is nothing to fear now."

She could not look at Erik. She had done it for herself as much as she had done it for him. It was the ghost that kept them both in chains, and maybe if she could kill him with words they would both believe it and move on… maybe.

She felt the air change around them slightly; it seemed to suddenly be lighter, clearer, and almost normal. And then she realised that Erik had started a conversation with Edgar.

They were talking about London - the people, the architecture, the appalling weather… she had to smile at the abhorrence on Erik's face when Edgar professed his love for the English culture. And she found her body to be stimulated by Erik's voice, just his normal, subdued, human voice. And for a dizzy instant she allowed her mind and body to ignore the strangeness of this situation. She let her mind have a few moments of absolute peace and pretended that this was a normal afternoon… they were just three acquaintances sharing some tea and talking about the world they knew and lived in.

For a few moments she actually did believe it, and then she felt a jolt of unexpected hurt… Erik had been to London? If this was the case, where else had he been? There was so much about him that she did not know.

"…Yes, my late wife used to say the exact same thing!" Edgar said, in response to Erik complaining that he did not care for politics or the monarchy. "But don't you see, we _must _take an interest. The people in those buildings make the decisions that will shape our future - that will shape the history of the world! In a hundred years' time, nobody will remember you or me… not even the beautiful Miss Daae! But the monarchs and the politicians will always be remembered!"

"That's such a shame," Christine said wistfully. "They might make the decisions, but _we_ live it. History should be about the people… not politics…"

She noticed Erik staring at her intently and felt a tingle in her soul that shivered all the way down her arms. The strangeness of this whole situation crashed upon her in cold waves. In one moment it seemed almost normal to be here with Erik, in a café, in the daylight… but it was _him_, the Opera Ghost, the man that had deceived her for so many years. The love she had left behind twice, never knowing quite how she felt about him. The man who, up until two days ago, she had banished from her mind – and now she was drinking tea with him as if it was the most normal thing in the world!

"My, how astonishing… that is exactly what my Isabella would say! You have reminded me of her since the first time we met, Miss Daae… it seems the two of you share the same mind as well as the same spirit! There is so much of her in Peter, too. Sometimes it scares me how much they are alike."

"You must miss her terribly," Christine said, knowing all too well the sting of losing a loved one.

"Yes, too much," the old man smiled sadly. "But life is what it is, and I would not change one thing about mine. She was worth every moment."

Christine could not stop her eyes from glancing at Erik. He was staring into the tabletop, his expression dark and utterly blank. It was the first time that she had noticed that he was wearing a mask; it was an odd colour and an odd shape. But strangely – it did not look odd at all. There was nothing haunting about it, in fact, it was quite mundane. His long hair and fine clothes seemed to distract the eye from it. And she realised that he was trying to hide it, this mask was meant to be unseen. She noticed that his real skin seemed to be paler than the mask. The real side of his face was prominent now.

A passing gentleman tapped Edgar on the shoulder; the old man turned around slightly and then jumped up with glee, and embraced the man like a brother.

Christine and Erik sat in cold silence. She noticed that his face had the pallor of death - sunken and grey. And then she realised, with horror, that hers must look much the same. Erik looked as though he wanted to vomit, and she was aware of a sickly ache in her stomach. The reality of the situation opened up around them, and they were now sitting on a cliff edge, with small pebbles and rocks falling into the misty depths below.

The odd pretence they had been playing at was stripped as quickly as it had started. Christine could see and feel every moment from two nights ago; the thoughts were entwining treacherously with the aching images of two years prior. The memories whirled together, twisting inside her soul and scratching at her bones. And she saw Erik's face cupped in her hands, and felt his tears in her palm. She had always known that there were no words to cure either one's tears, but she still could not find the strength to wipe the hurt away with her bare hands.

She knew that Erik would get up from the table now, and leave her to fall into the dark unknown beneath. She did not know what lay in that shadowy pit, but she knew she needed to face it. They could dangle on the edge for the rest of their lives, but only ever be half awake, waiting for that painful fall that would inevitably come.

"I am sorry for leaving you like that," she said suddenly, breaking the stillness.

Erik could only stare at her in horror – not knowing which time she meant.

Christine could hear Edgar finishing his conversation with the other man. The tea was all gone, and in a moment he would come back to the table and the three of them would leave. Erik would walk away through the crowded boulevard and she might never see him again. She could not remember where he lived, and she might never get the answers to all of the questions which tore at her flesh day and night…

"Meet me," she said before her mind could stop her.

"What?" Erik said hoarsely.

"Meet me again..."

Every instinct told Erik to scoff, to rebuke her request with cold sarcasm. But he made the mistake of looking into her eyes… her lovely eyes. And heard himself ask, like a slave addressing his owner, "When?"

"Tomorrow, at noon, meet me here again…"

Erik nodded softly, his eyes clouded with shock. And something else, something that burned Christine all the way to her core.

"You must forgive me for not introducing the two of you to that gentleman," said Edgar, joining them at the table once more. "But I haven't seen him in twenty years… and I must confess - I have completely forgotten his name!"

"Memory is a treacherous thing," Erik said with a small sneer, looking at Christine.

"It is indeed, dear boy, it is indeed!" Edgar chuckled heartily, patting Erik on the back.

"…And so is time," Erik continued. "And I am running late for another engagement. I am afraid I shall have to bid you both good afternoon." He relished the bewilderment in Christine's eyes. He could see her trying to fathom what other engagements a ghost could possibly have. In truth, he was dying a little bit every time she looked at him, and the urge to touch her perfect face was a monstrous thing that made his hands tremble.

But she did not need to know that.

"Very well," Edgar said, standing up to shake Erik's hand. "It was a delight to see you, Larsson. Be sure to call on me again soon!"

"I will. Thank you for a splendid afternoon, Monsieur." He then turned to Christine and tipped his hat slightly. "Mademoiselle, it was a pleasure to meet you."

Christine mirrored his smile. "You too, Monsieur Larsson."

And with that he turned and strode from the café, every nerve in his body tingling with the aftershock of spending an afternoon with Christine. Even if she did not show up tomorrow, if she should shun him again and change her mind, he would always have this. She had sat with him, and talked, and he had memorised the tone of her voice and every word she had said. He would remember forever the way her mouth moved and how the busy café had been reflected in her dark eyes.

He could not think about tomorrow, not now, not after such an afternoon. Tomorrow was, after all, another day.

"What a remarkable man he is!" Edgar chuckled, as he and Christine sat watching Erik's tall frame stride along the boulevard.

"Yes," Christine said glumly. "I daresay he is."

oOo


	19. I See You

_Love is like a tree, it grows of its own accord, it puts down deep roots into our whole being._

Victor Hugo – Notre-Dame de Paris

oOo

**I See You**

oOo

It was almost noon.

Christine stood outside the café, feeling exposed and awkward. She had taken off her gloves and now fiddled with them endlessly, lacing them in her fingers and twisting the fabric through her hands. She was sure that each passer-by knew her secret, that they all knew about the guilty feelings that churned away inside her bones, whipping up nauseating convulsions that made it hard to swallow. She could see it in their eyes and shrewd smiles; they were all staring at her, knowingly.

She felt angry at them all for their anonymous judgement, and she could feel herself glaring back, unable to stop her irrational frustration. The freezing air was sticking to her skin, an icy spider-web that made her nose and lips feel numb. But she didn't mind the cold – it was keeping her sane, allowing her to remember that she was really here. This was no dream.

She had not known whether to wait for him inside or to stand here and search for his face amongst the approaching crowds. In the end she had conceded that it was best to remain outside, so she simply stood in the same spot, too cold to think and too anxious to move, with a sickly apprehension rising and falling with each breath.

This was a foolish idea – a very foolish idea.

The previous evening had been a torment. Each tick of the clock had seemed to stretch into eternity, and Christine had been sure that a thousand lifetimes had passed each time the chimes announced the new hour. The pretence had been the hardest of all. More than anything she had wanted to open her heart and confide everything she was feeling to Meg – or, if she had been really brave, Madame Giry. It seemed that these new emotions did not want to be suppressed; they wanted to rise and crash with the brilliant glitter of rapturous fireworks. But instead of letting them out, Christine had swallowed them down – but the flames did not extinguish, they smouldered slowly, and festered in the deepest crevices of her being, rippling and quivering in a place she could not see.

She was sure Madame Giry could sense the fire that stirred within her. After observing her drained pallor and feeling her clammy forehead, the older woman had declared that Christine was coming down with a cold.

…But Christine knew it was more of a fever.

Madame Giry had prescribed a hot bath and an early night to aid Christine's recovery. Meg was out with Peter, so the house was silent - perfect for rest and recuperation.

"There is an art exhibition I wish to attend tomorrow; it looks to be very interesting. Perhaps if you are feeling a little better we could go together?" Madame Giry had asked as Christine was about to retire to bed.

Christine had felt all of her blood rise to her face and her ears tingled with hot shock. She hadn't known what to say, what to do… But something in her mind had taken over, prompting her to say calmly and with control, "I promised to meet Mathieu tomorrow, for luncheon. He is leaving soon and I wanted another chance to say goodbye. Perhaps we could go another day?"

"But of course, my dear. I must confess that I am glad that you and he have become such good friends. Be sure to give him my regards – and tell him to write to us when he is settled."

Then Madame Giry had kissed Christine on the cheek and bid her goodnight, believing the story without any hint of suspicion. Christine had gone to bed, ashamed of her lies and of the need that had governed them.

She had spent the rest of the night in a half-conscious state where she had been aware of nothing but the thump of her own heart. Her mood had shifted from anxiety, to anticipation and then to absolute dread and she had shifted in the bed to try and escape the thoughts that charged through her, rolling in patches of cold perspiration.

She had told herself that the next day was about closure and control; nothing more. This last week had tortured her with its revelations, and she did not know who she was… or who _he_ was. One moment he was a ghostly stranger she had found in the night, and then a calm and polite gentleman with whom she had shared tea and civilized conversation. The links were there, but she could not tie them together.

Her memories had been given back to her, but she felt as though they belonged to someone else – she did not know what to do with them. In the last two years something had changed her, in so many ways she had become a different girl, and now these memories had been restored to her head but she could not connect with them or move on.

Tomorrow would help her to understand. She needed to regain control of her life, she had asked to see him and he had agreed. This meeting was on her terms – she would be in control.

She had repeated this over and over like a mantra, again and again until she had fallen asleep at last…

…It was a way to move on… a closure, a way to close the door on the past, it would answer the questions she could not, and question the answers she already had. It would explain why she craved the feel of his skin, why she felt his tears on her cheeks when he cried… and why she ached with this horrifying desire …

She would know why this man had once been a ghost… and why she had loved a voice with no flesh…

She had awoken just before dawn, with an ache in her watery eyes. For a few seconds it had been just a normal day, and her mind had remained in the foggy dominion of dreams. She had rubbed her eyes and stretched, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

Then her heart had given a jolt as she remembered what this day would hold. She had thrown the blankets off and begun pacing around her room.

The morning had passed too quickly and before she could breathe, it was noon and she was waiting for him outside the café.

She searched the crowd again for any signs of him – for the black suit, cloak and confident posture. But all she could see was the eyes and mouths of strangers, the laughter and patchy conversation of people she did not know, mixed with the clack and shuffle of horse hooves and carriage wheels. The noises seemed to be coming at her from all angles, and she did not know if it was relief she felt that he was not yet here, or burning, bitter disappointment.

She looked down, certain that it must be noon now; she had been standing in this same spot for at least half an hour… She found that it was easier to look at the ground and study people's feet. Ladies' shoes poked out elegantly from beneath their skirts – slim boots, slender white buckles, slippers with embroidered detail. Christine admired the expensive shoes of the upper-class women, and unconsciously made sure her own sensible winter boots were hidden beneath her dress. Gentlemen's shoes were all much the same – black, shiny and smart. She watched as what seemed like an entire army of them marched past her, striding to important meetings in various offices around the city.

A pair of brown, pointed shoes came to stand before her, scratching against the pavement as they stopped.

Her head shot up, and she frowned, troubled – she did not recognise the figure in front of her. The rest of his clothing was also brown, with a matching hat and overcoat. There was a light blue cravat poking from the top of his shirt… and the strange brown mask covering half of his face…

His features were blank; she found that there was something terrifying in that lack of emotion. Indifference was worse that any sneer, scowl or glare. It was rejection of the most acute kind.

But then she saw his eyes, and the depth of hurt she saw there assured her that this was him. It was Erik.

_Erik._

He had been studying her too, and his mouth gave a small twitch. Christine suddenly became conscious of the sleepless night that now must be exhibited on her face; she could see the dark circles beneath her eyes and feel the chill of her white skin. She had grimaced that very morning when seeing her reflection, but the weight of the day had forced any vanity to the back of her mind.

She was here with him now. He was here.

She couldn't believe it.

"Mademoiselle," he said, tipping his hat. "You asked to see me, and here I am."

His voice seemed rehearsed and civil – in complete opposition to his stern countenance and rigid shoulders. The sound of his voice was diluted by the racket of the boulevard, it seemed thinner in tone and pitch – but it still had the ability to drive her senses into disarray.

The fragile courage Christine had built up was swept away with the breeze that blew through her hair. She couldn't speak or smile – her control was now with the leaves that rustled across the boulevard.

"Shall we?" he said, motioning to the café door.

Christine followed his hand with her eyes, looking at the café through the steamed up windows. It was crowded inside, and the mist that clung to the glass was a mixture of steaming teacups and the breath of strangers. It would be hot inside, swarming with the mingled smell of people, tea and pastries.

"No, let's walk," she managed at last.

Erik looked up at they grey sky, at the churning, angry clouds, and at the same time the chilly wind lifted the tails of his coat.

"Walk?" he asked with a raised brow.

"Yes," Christine said defiantly. "There is a small park nearby and I feel like some air."

She could tell by his amused look that he thought it was a ridiculous idea; he gave her a small, supercilious smile and said, "As you wish, Mademoiselle. I am at your disposal." Then he offered her his arm, and she stared at it, dismayed.

"We should at least look the part," he said dryly.

Hesitantly, Christine took his arm and they set off. The sensation of being so close to him was painfully delightful, but she told herself that it was just the comfort of having a warm body next to her on this cold day. She let her mind take a dangerous route and pretended that this was normal – that she could hold his arm everyday and they could walk through the city together whenever they wanted.

But that was a dangerous trail of thought – too dangerous for a day like today.

She wondered what passers-by thought of them, whether anyone noticed them, or if they simply blended in with the rest. Maybe the people they passed had secrets and dismal pasts of their own, maybe stranger things _had_ happened – maybe both of them were more normal that they realised. She wondered what Erik was thinking; so far they had been walking in complete silence… he had not looked at her once.

She still did not know what she wanted to say to him, or why she had asked him to be here. But it was a strange comfort to know that he was by her side, that yesterday hadn't been a dream – he really was real.

"I wanted to assure you that I knew nothing of your acquaintance with the old man," Erik said, turning to look at her for the first time. "I do not want you to think –"

"I know," Christine said, offering him a small smile. She was sure she saw his face soften slightly. "I know you didn't." Then she bit her lip. "May I ask how you met him?"

Erik turned his attention back to the boulevard, his voice impassive once again. "A chance encounter, nothing more – I did not expect to ever see him again."

Christine nodded silently to herself, knowing this was to be all the explanation he was going to offer.

"He is a very good man," she said. Erik did not answer her; his face was so blank that she thought that perhaps he hadn't heard. But she did not want to repeat herself, a small lump was forming in her throat – but she did not know why.

"May I ask how you get by these days?" he asked without turning to look at her.

This was such a strong deviation from his last question that Christine felt slightly taken aback.

"Meg still dances, she was in London until recently, working at the Opera. And Madame Giry and I work as seamstresses at the _Théâtre Lyrique__; _it is enough for us to get by. But they have asked her to help with the ballet – so I will be working alone."

She looked up at him. He didn't say anything, but his jaw stiffened slightly.

"You don't approve," she diagnosed.

"Of course I don't approve."

The haughtiness of his tone sent an irritated stab through Christine. "May I ask why?"

"Because you are working in a profession that is completely beneath you. Why would I approve of that?"

Christine did not want to answer him, because although she was annoyed by his arrogance, she knew he was right. She knew that she could snap back at him, that she could bring up the loss of the Opera House, her fear of singing again in society and the breakdown of her mind – but she did not want to. Today was already hard enough.

They walked the rest of the way in complete silence. A sharp burst of wind caused Christine to tighten her grip on Erik's arm and she felt him tense, and then draw his elbow in – so that they were closer together. She was glad of it, for they seemed to be walking in a wind tunnel and she was scared to let go, lest it carried her away.

Other citizens continued to pass by them – couples, families, businessmen and vagabonds. But of all the people they passed, only one man looked at them. Nobody else gave them a second glance, nobody cared – nobody at all.

Christine felt anxious and annoyed – this was not the way this was supposed to be happening! She had not asked him here to talk about Edgar, or the weather or how she earned her money. She wanted to know about him, about the past. She wanted to know why this bond they shared would not snap.

They had been walking through the park for some time, Christine was surprised to notice. Trees lined the paths, poking up from the earth like naked, jagged forks. The wind caused the many fallen leaves to rise and swirl together, rustling as they gave chase to each other across the path.

Erik stopped walking. The park was near-empty, as well it should be on a cold November afternoon.

"Why are we here, Christine?" he asked with a deep, troubled sigh.

Christine realised that this was the first time he had said her name – she could hear the sound echoing in her pulse.

"It is less busy than the boulevard; I thought it would be easier to…"

"No, you know what I meant. Why am _I_ here with you?"

She unhooked her arm from his and moved to sit on a bench at the edge of the path. She looked directly at him, her eyes sharp and glassy.

"I don't know," she said, trying to smile at him. It was a useless, futile smile. A smile that was like a thousand nails being hammered into his heart. She saw him close his eyes and take a deep breath, as though he was preparing to jump from the face of a high cliff.

Christine wondered whether he would have pursued her again if she had not asked to meet him, or if he would have forgotten her and never looked back. After all, _she_ had been the one to request this meeting. Whatever this new thing was that existed between them – she had started it. At the Opera, it had all been him, he had held out his hand to her, he had called her into the mirror, and she had followed him into his world of darkness. He had wanted to teach her, to show her, to make her see. He had called to her and she had accepted. Fate had sealed itself that night, more powerfully than Christine could ever have imagined.

Now, she had offered him an invitation, and he had accepted. She had called him out to show him the daylight; she had taken his arm and made him walk through the crowded streets… to show him, to make him see…

The symmetry was almost beautiful.

Erik came to sit beside her on the bench. His movements were slow, guarded and stiff. Christine wondered if he expected her to run away again – to leave him alone in the cold.

"There must have been a reason for you to request my presence," Erik said finally. "I cannot believe it was solely for the pleasure of my company." He said the words with slight snigger, but Christine did not know if he was laughing at himself or at her…

"I-I wanted..." Christine began, but the words died on her tongue. She bit the inside of her mouth and tried again, "My mind has been a black hole of fear and half-remembered dreams… the last two years have been unbearable. I blocked out the past because I could not face what might lie ahead. And then suddenly you were there again, and everything came back. Everything I had lost was suddenly given back to me. So, yes, Erik, it _was_ for your company. I wanted to see you again."

She was shocked by the strength in her voice; she hadn't thought she would ever be able to speak to Erik so reproachfully. He regarded her with his brow slightly raised, but there was no coldness in his eyes; in fact, it was quite the opposite.

Christine felt a small tightening inside her stomach.

"Well, if honesty is the order of the day," Erik said wryly, "there is something I must tell you too."

He looked at the horizon, then at his feet, and then at Christine. Suddenly his tone was very grave. "I have wanted to apologise, Christine. For the part I have played in your sadness. I am truly sorry."

Of all the things she had thought he would say, this was not among them. There was finality in his words, a resignation. He _was_ sorry – she saw it.

He was not begging for forgiveness, there was too much to forgive… on both sides. But the fact that he was capable of feeling sincere regret and remorse made Christine feel like she was floating. She did not know now what she had ever wanted to ask him, or what she had wanted him to tell her. His short admission seemed to kill all of her questions, two years' worth of searching evaporated by one statement.

Christine was at a loss; he had made himself more real with those words than he had done with every action in the last two days. The thought was terrifying, but she knew she could not run away from him – not this time.

"Thank you," was all she could say – and she meant it.

Christine looked up at the trees around them, all of them near-naked and vulnerable. Each one looked slightly abandoned, drawn with black charcoal against a backdrop of red, orange and gold. She realised what a beautiful time of year it really was – a time of change.

"The leaves only fall because they cannot live without the sun," Christine said. "How wonderful, that they change, and fall, and come back to life with such virility. If only we could do the same, begin again… over and over..."

Erik was watching her fixedly and Christine suddenly felt a hot blush flame up on her cheeks. "I am sorry; I am not sure why I said that..."

Erik shook his head slightly. "Do not apologise. It is perhaps the most interesting thing anyone has ever told me."

She did not know if he was teasing her, or if he really meant it, but there was suddenly warmth in his eyes that had not been there before. They almost seemed to be smiling.

Erik took off his gloves and bent down to pick up a leaf that lay at his feet. It must have fallen long ago; the edges were dry and crisp. He rubbed it between his thumb and finger, learning the textures. Christine watched him quietly, not feeling any need to fill this silence with words. This was different, comfortable. She wondered if it was the first time he had paid close attention to autumn – to the change the natural world went through, or if, perhaps, he had observed it many times. She might never know.

She took off her gloves and reached for his hand. Erik dropped the leaf and simply stared at her. She held his hand between both of hers, smoothing his skin with her small fingers – learning the textures. Then she turned his hand over and put her palm against his, skin against skin. His hand was so much larger than hers; she could feel the heat of his blood rising up, and it seemed to be touching her, too.

He slowly moved his hand away; when Christine looked at him she saw a pain in his eyes that shook her – a desperate, terrible pain. The bench had been swiped from beneath her, the ground seemed to have shifted and she didn't know why she wasn't falling.

Erik put his palm against her cheek. The angle at which they were both sitting made the whole thing slightly awkward. It was a touch that seemed to caress the soul, skin that had always yearned to touch another finally finding its home. It was a touch that seemed to signify a new beginning – or perhaps the end of something. Christine did not know which, or what she hoped it would be – but she knew that this strange moment would haunt her until the end of her days.

In an instant it was over. Erik moved his hand away and returned his gaze to the park. They simply sat side by side, proper and polite once more.

"We should return," Erik said, his voice cool.

He looked at Christine and she nodded, not trusting herself to be able to speak. Her cheek was still tingling, and the haunting prickles seemed to be spreading across her whole body.

They stood up and headed towards the park gates. There was only one other person in the park, far in the distance, so small that he looked like a toy figure. Erik did not make a point of offering his arm, but Christine took hold of it anyway. And they walked slowly back towards the boulevard.

Erik held out his arm to hail a hansom cab for her.

"It's all right. I can walk… it is no trouble..." she said.

The look he gave her was not pleasant – as though he had never heard such a ludicrous proposal. Christine bit down on her tongue.

A cab eventually stopped in front of them. Erik spoke to the driver and handed him some money. Christine stepped forward and told the man the address. He scratched his stubbly chin for a moment and then nodded, indicating that he knew where he was going.

"Well, thank you for a delightful afternoon," Erik said politely.

Christine looked at him sadly. "I do not know how to say goodbye to you, Erik."

He frowned and his jaw set tightly. She knew it had been a clumsy choice of words, but she could not help it.

"Like this," he took her hand and kissed it softly. "Adieu, Christine." And then he gave her a gloomy smirk. "Perhaps I have just had more practice…"

"Adieu, Erik," Christine said – her voice just above a whisper.

Erik helped her inside, Christine sat back in the seat, and her entire body seemed to release a frustrated sigh.

"Do not fear – I will not follow you. I give you my word."

Christine did not know how to tell him that _that_ was exactly what she feared.

She smiled at him once more. Erik closed the door and stepped back onto the pavement. His eyes did not leave hers.

The cab trotted off and joined the other horse-drawn traffic. Erik watched until he could no longer distinguish which carriage was Christine's. He then he pulled up the collar of his coat, turned on his heel and strode away.

oOo


	20. Matter Over Mind

AN: This is a direct continuation of the last chapter, I really hope you like it!

* * *

_I was dead and now I live  
You took my hand_

_I blindly died  
You took my hand_

_You watched me die  
And found my life_

_You were my life  
When I was dead_

_You are my life  
And so I live_

Harold Pinter – To My Wife

oOo

_**Matter Over**__** Mind**_

oOo

The wheels were shaking and rolling away, flattening the ground with each rigid turn. Erik could feel the pressure of each cycle against his heart, pressing excruciating craters into his damaged soul. The wheels were crushing him, this day was crushing him… Christine had crushed him!

She was leaving again, but this time he had shut the door for her, he had sent her away… he had paid her carriage fare and pretended not to care for her address. He had escorted her through the streets; her tiny fingers had clasped his arm, and then later held his hand – as if it was all right to touch the monster now, as though she didn't mind. They had bid each other good afternoon and he had been silent and reserved – wanting more than anything to fall to his knees and press kisses to her hands.

Erik could feel his hands shaking inside the leather prison of his gloves. He wanted to throw them off, he cursed the restraint he felt; it seemed to be smothering every part of his body. He wanted to run after that carriage and rip off the doors, he wanted to touch Christine's face with his own skin, to trace the shape of her cheek with his fingers; he wanted to hold her and crush her against him until they melted into one flesh!

He was trembling with the need to run after her, to hear her speak and sing, to fill his soul with the sound of her beloved voice. But everything in his new, polished prison forbade him; this new role restricted him from doing any of those things. It was not the way men acted. He could not act like that, not now. He was a man… apparently.

Oh, God! he thought, an entire afternoon with her, _another _afternoon of the polite pretence… the game they were both playing so well that it was starting to feel real.

Who was that girl? Erik did not know her, she was so calm and strong and she did not seem to be scared of him at all. She said she had _wanted_ to see him again. Why? Was this the final chapter for her, one last meeting with the ghost before she could hammer the final nails into his coffin? Christine's way of leaving it all behind… of saying goodbye…

_Adieu, Erik…_

But these polite meetings had had the opposite effect on him. He found that he loved her with even more hopeless pain than he had before; it was a burning current dragging him towards another shipwreck. He would not be able to stay afloat for long, very soon he would sink. But this time he did not want to drag her down with him, he wanted to rebuild the wreckage and let her float and soar among the Heavens. He wanted to make sure she would always be safe and dry… even if he was condemned to drown.

It had been different before, letting her go had been worse than a thousand plagues, but it was in the knowledge that she would be safe and happy. She had had the boy then – she had wanted the boy, she had wanted someone to rescue her. But the girl he had seen today did not seem to need saving. She had met the monster of her own accord; she had liberated herself and wanted to hold her life in her own hands.

Erik suddenly felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Of course she was brave; she still had the little Giry, the meddling old Giry and now the old man too. _Family – _her security came from these people, they had looked after her for two years, and something in the refuge they had given had made her strong. She was not the abandoned angel he had worshipped; she had grown-up and stumbled into womanhood. And she was somehow even more captivating than she had been before.

The resentment and jealousy Erik expected to feel did not come. His shoulders were tense and he could feel his face scowling, but his emotions did not match his posture. Strangely, something else opened up inside him – he felt a baffling contentment resonate through him. It felt like a sigh, and there was a tranquil shiver inside that lapped at his soul in soft waves.

Erik frowned and quickened his stride, determined to stamp out these unknown feelings with a rapid march. He listened to his feet and tried to put the sounds around him into a rhythm… the clack of hooves, the jostle of wheels, and the squeal of irritating children. Other sounds came forward now, the cackle from a table of women, merry laughter, the monotone humming of old men, a whistle from the wind, a scraping of leaves…

There were so many sounds around him, continually overlapping and merging, voices were immediate, right at his ear, and then gone – mingling into the swarm of distant speech. Erik was enthralled, he had walked through the streets a few times now, but this was the first time he had ever really _listened_ to Paris. Before, he would only ever venture out as an absolute requirement, and there had always been a way to avoid people and daylight; night time had been the best canopy of all. But now he was mesmerised by the busy sounds of the world… by its life and light.

This city had been his home for most of his life… if he could call anywhere home. And yet he had never really looked at it properly, not in the way it was supposed to be seen. The rooms let to him by Henry were in a dark and distant corner of the city, a place where crime and danger were commonplace. The streets were narrow and featureless, and at night the houses and windows were a graveyard of whispering shadows and stone. In the daylight the streets seemed remote and oddly abandoned by human existence – even when they were crowded. That place gave solitude a new meaning, everyone seemed to crave it, and the crowds of people craving isolation made the air hum with a kind of hostile terror. Erik felt like he really was living in a town of ghosts, all faces sullen and white. At first he had felt at home there, the other citizens seemed to have a wary respect for him and looked at him as though he had been sent to lead them. He was Erik, king of the condemned – emperor of a dusty corner in Paris!

He would have laughed, but for the shame of it all.

Light was scarce in that part of the city, and despite himself, Erik found that he tried to follow the little beams that dared to shine; Only, they seemed to be constantly moving away from him – always shining just around the corner.

Erik took a moment to breathe in Paris as it was in this very moment – cafés, people, smoke, mausoleums and theatres, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There were no shadows here… Paris was beautiful.

A familiar face in the distance made him halt. It was the little Giry, on the arm of her fiancé. Darkness invaded Erik's senses like a snapping bone. He felt his heart recoil with icy panic. Her small, pale face was aimed directly at him and he was sure her blue eyes had been staring at him. The boy said something and she averted her gaze to reply. Erik took this opportunity to slip deftly into the crowds, knowing he would become lost in the maze of top hats and faces.

He walked hurriedly now, head down, listening only to the beat of his heart. He had been wrong – daylight was cruel and deadly!

Paris was a void, people came here to disappear. Henry had told him of fugitives who had fled to Paris under pursuit of the police and had successfully managed to evade capture, men who now lived normal, successful lives. These men who had jumped into the myriad and never again come up for air, the current had pulled them into the twisting streets and throbbing crowds and thrown them back as free men. If this was true, then why was he destined to see the face of everyone from his past? He half expected to turn the corner and find the rest of the ballet rats waiting. And why stop there, he thought with a smirk, perhaps the set designers could come along, and the orchestra… possibly the cleaning staff, too! Why ever not, the more the merrier!

And then a new fear began to smother him, he realised that, had the little Giry been on this very boulevard only moments earlier… she would have seen him with Christine. She would have screamed, thinking that the Phantom was back to kidnap her friend. And then Peter and Edgar would have known everything – he would have become the monster again! Not only for his past offences but because of why he had come back and the man he was helping…

He felt alternately hot and cold – he had not the right to touch Christine, or laugh with Edgar or stride through Paris like a free man. Not while he continued to further the cause of a man who wanted to destroy their happiness! While he was associated with Henry this would always haunt him, this fear would be ripe and pungent until he did something to change it.

He knew what he needed to do and suddenly the need to act on it was vicious and urgent.

Christine had held his hand today; that was all that mattered to him now. He would guard that memory fiercely – even to the death.

He heard a small voice behind him, in the distance.

"Wait… stop!"

The small hairs on the back of his neck began to rise; the voice called out again.

"Stop, Erik!"

His heart sank painfully and he sighed, then he turned around.

Christine's eyes were wide and burning, and her cheeks flushed from running in the cold. She had been smiling, but the sight of his scowling face made her snap her mouth shut and stand very still.

"Christine, what are you doing?" His tone was harsh, more so than he had intended – but he could not help it. She was foolish to follow him, very foolish! To call out his name for the entire world to hear! And yet… she had followed him, she wanted to see him again, her soft eyes were looking at him without fear, without revulsion…

Christine smiled wryly, "The carriage is still waiting." She gestured to the cab waiting at the end of the boulevard. "I just wanted to –"

She came to stand closer to him and they moved to the edge of the boulevard, so that they were away from the crowds. Her eyes were wide and serious, Erik wasn't aware of anything but the beat of his heart, deep and low. Christine took a deep breath.

"It did not feel right – to leave it like that, I didn't even thank you for meeting me," she tried to smile, but it was lopsided.

Erik was at a loss – _she_ was thanking _him_?

"It was my pleasure, I assure you," he tried to smile, but it looked like another smirk.

"There is something else," she bit her lip. "I wanted to tell you that –"

"Christine!" A third voice called from the other side of the boulevard. It was Meg, she was running towards them.

Erik and Christine's eyes snapped to her, and then back to each other. Christine glanced back to look at Meg, and as soon as she did Erik backed away and ran. No decorum, no polite farewell – he needed to get away.

It was like running barefoot over a scolding furnace; Christine's unsaid words burned every inch of him. Frustration sparked and crackled in his core, he wanted to go back, he wanted to take her with him and never let her go… but he could not, he would not. And he knew that these new, precarious principles were both his undoing and his salvation.

He hailed a carriage and clambered in, finding comfort in the muted light inside. He needed to get back to his rooms, he wanted to shut out the light and breathe the darkness in and out. He wanted to lock the door and feel safe… He was a fool to try and change, he could not do it – it was too late!

But then he remembered Christine's small, perfect hands holding his, the feel of her cheek. The sensation of her griping his arm, of being able to protect her from the cold… to keep her warm and safe…

His life had been so wrong until now; every path he had ever taken had been lined with daggers and darkness, and until now he had embraced it like a lover, always begging for more…

But now, he could see it all clearly. It had all been so wrong, all of it – every little inch. Everything he had done in the last two years, in his life, was wrong. Why was he only seeing it now? He _had _been a ghost, it had not been a mask, nor a role, an alias or even a dream. He had been dead inside, existing in the past, loving a ghost, not living at all. Why did guilt and the need for redemption only come now? What did he have to do to become an upright citizen? Did he need to go on a crusade or a holy quest to prove he was capable of valour and courage – a pilgrimage to the land of holy water and forgiveness?

The ghost and the demon were fighting a bitter battle inside of him; the echoes of their screaming would surely corrupt the senses of any man. Erik was usually numb to their menacing ways, but now the marching pace of their hatred and fear reverberated through his soul. They were the serpents of hate, love, guilt and revenge, writhing and twisting together, entwining into a deadly knot – bashing their heads against each other until they became one soul. Not the soul of a demon, a ghost or an angel, they became a human soul, _his _soul – at once both flawed and flawless. Erik was a man – only that.

It was not the roar of a lion or of any other beast that was now inside his head – it was his own voice; a banished voice that had finally reclaimed its rightful place on the throne of his sanity.

Erik was a newly-made paradox, he hated his past as much as ever, he hated his face, he wanted to exile both of them to the deepest crack in his core, but it was _because _of his dark past that a new light seemed to be blazing in front of him. A life lived in darkness made the light so brilliant…

In a way, his terrible past had helped to bring something back to life, it had all happened so that now he could wake up for the first time, so he could see the glorious sunrise of his own mind.

He clasped his hands to his knees and held them tightly. His heart and his head were pulsing rapidly, trying to catch up with the changes that were occurring in his soul… and all the while, while he had been trembling and bleeding, there had been only one word resounding through his mind, undergoing the changes with him and helping him to face the light… the only word that could keep him sane.

_Christine._

He suddenly knew what he needed to do. He moved forward so he could speak to the driver.

"Take the next rue on the left, Monsieur… there has been a change of destination."

The driver nodded.

Erik clasped his hands together and sat back in his seat.

oOo

The constant ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was irksome. Christine tried to distance her mind from it, but trying to ignore it only made the sound louder and sharper. Each tick made her think of Erik. She shook her head slightly, to free herself, but the next tick brought the emotions back, and she craved those precious silences in between the steady noises so that her mind would be in peace. But the sound tortured her with its hypnotic rhythm; it was almost like music…

Tick… silence… tock… silence… tick… silence… tock… _Erik_…

She wanted to scream.

She looked down at her soup, then across the table at Meg and Madame Giry. They were both eating, unaware of how her nerves fluttered and how her bones vibrated with a sickly agitation.

Every now and then Meg would glance at her with wide eyes, to try and prompt her to say something to Madame Giry… to let it all out, to tell the truth. But Christine was terrified, not because of the truth – because of her lies. She had never lied to Madame Giry before, and she had witnessed the temper of the Ballet Mistress enough to know she had cause to fear her wrath.

Christine opened her mouth to speak, fully aware that nothing was going to come out. She snapped her mouth shut and returned to her bowl. She wished Meg had not seen her, that she had stayed in the carriage and not gone after Erik. She wished that this whole day could remain a guilty secret. A secret she could lock away and think of only in her dreams.

She remembered those earlier moments as if she was living them again and again. As the carriage had pulled away she had been shaken with a desperate urge not to let Erik leave. Something about the way they had parted had stung her. She needed to see him once more, to thank him, to make sure he hadn't forgotten her… to know that he was all right. And so, listening to a voice that seemed to rise up from the long-forgotten recesses of her heart, she summoned the strength to chase after him…

But Meg had seen them, and Erik had run away – taking his answers with him.

Christine had watched his fleeing figure, and in her mind she had followed him, but her feet could not move. She had jumped when Meg gripped her arm.

"Christine?" Meg's voice had been sharp and clear, a bell tolling in the night. "What is going on?"

Christine had looked at her friend; her eyes had felt watery and drained. She had felt ambushed by Meg's sudden appearance, as if night and day had clashed too quickly. Meg and Erik did not exist in the same place; they were from two different worlds. Worlds she had created inside herself. Erik was a dream and Meg was real. That was the way it had always been, one was flesh and the other – fantasy. The realisation that they were both flesh, both real, had taken her breath away.

"Nothing," she had said wearily. "Nothing is happening. Let's go home."

She had tried to walk away but Meg had grabbed her arm again, tightly, worried.

"Christine, why was he here?"

Christine had taken a pained breath. "Not here, Meg."

She had taken Meg's hand and walked briskly to the waiting carriage. The driver had nodded at her in greeting and they had climbed inside. Moments after they had sat down the wheels gave a jolt and the carriage pulled away.

Christine had watched as the streets rolled by, the shop fronts and cafés, the people and the light. Deep moments of silence had ticked between Meg and herself. She had hoped Meg wouldn't ask any more, that she would be spared the explanation of her actions.

"Was he following you?" Meg had asked, her voice breaking Christine's dreamy ignorance.

"No," Christine had said, turning to meet her friend's serious eyes. "It's not like that – not like before. I asked to see him."

Meg's eyelashes had fluttered in confusion, she had tried to hide her horror, but Christine had been able to see it. It was like looking in a mirror.

"Does Mamman know?"

"No," Christine had sighed. "I was going to tell her, both of you – I had not meant to keep it secret, it happened accidentally."

"You remember?" Meg had asked, aghast.

"Yes." Christine remembered looking down at her hands, at the floor, anywhere but at Meg. "It only happened yesterday – I wanted to be sure before I told you. I needed to know I wasn't crazy."

Meg had frowned, but her voice was kind. "You need to tell her, Christine."

"I know."

Tick… silence… tock… silence…

The soup was hot. Christine tried to eat but the fluid clogged her throat. Madame Giry ate with her normal grace, glancing at Meg and Christine to make sure they were both eating. She saw the disturbed look on Christine's face and frowned.

"Did you have a pleasant afternoon, Christine?" she said, before taking a small slurp from her spoon.

Christine nodded softly, looking into her bowl. Then her eyes flicked to Madame Giry – they were large and heavy.

"I did not meet Mathieu," she said.

"Oh?"

"I did not have an arrangement to meet him."

Madame Giry's eyebrows rose, and she put down her spoon. Meg continued to eat, avoiding the eyes of both her mother and Christine.

"I see."

Christine felt an icy claw creep up her neck, the hot fingers sent a cool heat down her spine. She gave Madame Giry a useless smile.

"_He _is back," she said – as if whispering to a ghost.

Meg dropped her spoon into her bowl with a _clank _and some of the soup splashed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth with red flecks. She held her breath.

Madame Giry's eyebrow remained in the air; her face was impassive and unmoving.

"Erik – he is back," Christine said again, her voice was stronger now, clear. She felt like she was dancing on a knife edge. This was not new information to Madame Giry; they _both_ knew he was back. But she could not tell Madame Giry she had followed her that night, that she had spied and waited in the shadows… that she had wandered into Erik's apartment – no, it was better this way.

Madame Giry's lips remained tight, but her shoulders relaxed a little.

"And you have seen him?" the older woman asked finally.

"Yes."

"He sought you out?"

"No!" Christine said urgently. "It was an accident, he was with Edgar. They know each other – somehow. I saw him and then I remembered. I – I'm sorry..."

"He did not harm you?"

The look in Christine's eyes gave Madame Giry her answer. She nodded softly. "Of course not… but, did you speak to him?"

"A little, and then again today… I had to, after I hadseen him again. He won't try to find me. I know it. He seemed different…" she tried to talk past the uninvited lump in her throat. "We are safe… he will not come back."

"Has it _all_ come back?" the older woman asked. There seemed to be a spark of happiness in her tone. Perhaps it was relief – utter relief.

Christine bit her lip slightly. "Yes – at least, I think it has. I am still confused about a few things…"

"It will take time, child. You must be patient – the important thing is that you can remember the past." For a moment Madame Giry's smile was so warm that Christine forgot all about her lies. But the smile deepened into a frown.

"Promise me you will never keep such a thing secret again, Christine Daaé. You are safe, yes… but it could have been very different. You have been very reckless, and foolish. The lamb should always be wary of the lion. You must promise to be honest from now on; there can be no more secrets."

Christine nodded vigorously, but she was shocked. She had expected more, to be sent to her room, to be screamed at for her stupidity, to be given extra chores for a month… anything, anything but this.

Madame Giry returned to her soup, and when Christine looked across the table she saw that Meg was as confused as she was.

"But, Mamman… what is to be done?" Meg asked.

Madame Giry looked squarely at her daughter. "About what, my dear?"

"About him… The – Erik."

Meg's words caused Christine to sit up with a fever-hot panic. Images leapt before her eyes: a man and an angel, a demon and a ghost riding in tandem, the comfort of echoes singing her name, the resonating caress from a voice in the shadows…. The hand of a man she had wanted to touch, to hold…

Suddenly she could see a cage, and darkness – disgusting faces pointing with laughter… the fear and tears of a child who wanted light… only light.

"Do you think he intends to cause harm, Christine?" Madame Giry asked.

Christine shook her head.

"Then we shall leave it at that. He has not disturbed us for two years, and we shall not disturb him. Now, finish you soup, please."

Christine breathed with shameful relief, and Meg returned to her food.

Moments later the young blonde began to tell them about her delightful afternoon with Peter, the wedding dress she had seen, and how she wanted her hair for the ceremony. She seemed to have forgotten all about The Phantom and the events of the day. Christine was happy to sit back and listen. The sound of the clock was no longer alarming, now instead of the tick Christine could hear a name; over and over again… it was like music.

She no longer craved the silence.

oOo

Erik climbed the steps two at a time and rang the ornate doorbell. His heartbeat was ringing loudly in his ears and he could feel hot blood throb in his temples. This could have waited until tomorrow, he thought, but he was spurred by the realisation that each second was precious; he could not wait until tomorrow to change things… he wanted to start now!

A small man with bright red hair answered the door. Erik eyed him with distaste for a moment, before looking past the man's shoulder into the hallway beyond.

"I am here to see Monsieur Lockhart, is he at home?"

"Ha! Why, Larsson, you gullible rouge, it _is_ me!"

Erik studied the man's face, and found, to his astonishment, that it was Edgar – dressed in a suit and a bright red wig. Erik did not know if he should laugh along with the old man or turn and run away fast. He had always found Edgar to be amusingly eccentric, but this was lamentable.

"Ah, so it is," he said, clearing his throat and attempting a humorous smile. "Forgive me, I did not recognise you, Monsieur."

The old man continued to chuckle to himself. "Come in, Larsson, come in…"

Erik followed him inside and down the hall. "Now, this is a pleasant surprise… what brings you to my door?"

They entered the sitting room which, like the rest of the house, was opulently furnished. The whole house had a fierce elegance to it, like a haven from the cruel world outside – a home that was also a means of escape. Erik felt certain that Edgar was not the one to be responsible for the décor. Although he was sure any house of Edgar's would be well-presented, the old man seemed to be much happier outdoors. No, this house had been a refuge for someone else, like an above-ground version of his old lair.

"I have a rather important matter I wish to discuss with you," Erik said.

"I see. Please, sit down, Larsson… Make yourself at home."

In his mind Erik refuted the offer of a seat and elected to remain standing. He did not want to sit down. But something tugged at him deep inside; refusing to sit was the same as refusing an offered hand. So, instead, he smiled amiably.

"My thanks," he said, taking a seat in the chair facing Edgar and crossing his legs.

"Shall I call for tea?" the old man asked.

"No, thank you. I shall not stay long."

Edgar smiled. "Very good. Now how can I help you, my friend?"

Erik leaned back in the chair. "I have decided to buy a property in the city…" he looked around the living room, admiring the high ceilings and large windows. "Not too dissimilar to this one. I thought that perhaps, as a man who moves in many _advantageous _social circles, you might know of an area or an agent who might be able to help… I am looking to move as quickly as possible."

"Ah, how wonderful! Now, let me think," Edgar said, scratching his chin. He seemed to be muttering to himself, listing names and places. Occasionally he would shake his head and frown.

Then a light seemed to spark in his old eyes. "Of course!" he chuckled. "How perfect, would you believe it… a friend of mine, Monsieur François Jeanval, has just moved out of his town-house… ready for a quick sale! It must be Fate, Larsson!"

"I'm intrigued, where is this house?"

"Now, let me think, ah yes! It's on the Rue de Lisbonne – a charming area! Right next to the Parc de Monceau, such a lovely house, I was surprised that he left it. He went off to America like so many others, engaged in a mining enterprise or some such nonsense. It is sitting empty and silent. All of the details are with his solicitor. I have the address somewhere… wait a moment, I will be right back."

Erik tried not to be exited by this prospect – he vowed to remain cautious. If the red wig was anything to go by, he and Edgar had very different ideas of what constituted _charm_.

He looked up at the large portrait that hung above the fireplace. It was of a woman; Erik supposed that she would have been in her twenties when she sat for the picture. The portrait was set against a plain backdrop, and the girl seemed to be looking past him – just over his shoulder. She was very elegantly dressed, her blonde hair coiffed in a graceful style with ringlets around her face. Her large blue eyes seemed to shine, but her mouth was tight and small. The likeness to Peter was astonishing, and Erik knew instantly that it was Isabella.

It was strange to suddenly be face to face with this woman, the woman that had caused such despair in her two suitors. Erik knew so much about her life, her past, her fears and her secrets… and she was not alive to defend herself. He knew everything, and there was nothing she could do about it. Death had denied her privacy. He looked at her face again, and this time her eyes seemed to be scowling. Erik gazed back at her mildly, in truth he could not see the beauty that had captured the hearts of both men. She was pretty – yes, but there was only one face he would ever think worthy of such a portrait…

"Here we are!" Edgar chirped, returning to the room, and handed Erik a business card. "The solicitor's address is on there, be sure to mention my name when you visit, he'll give you a fair price... on second thought, would you allow me to visit him for you? There are a few favours I can call in to hurry the process along."

Erik raised a brow, "I would not want you to go to any trouble…"

"It's no trouble at all," Edgar said kindly, cutting him off.

Erik smiled stiffly. "Very well, then. If you are certain… I am very obliged, Monsieur."

Erik was shocked, there seemed to be no way to refuse Edgar's offer, and in truth, he could not think of a reason to do so. Edgar did not want anything in return, he just wanted to help… someone wanted to help him. He did not know what this feeling was; it was like a thousand ballet-rats twirling and prancing in his stomach.

"You're most welcome; I always like to help out a friend. Now, what is the real reason for this extravagant purchase, eh? In my experience a man only buys property when he is looking to settle down. Is there a lucky young lady somewhere who is to become queen of the manor?"

Erik suddenly felt very hollow. "No, this project is solely for me. Everyone needs somewhere to call home…"

He looked back at the portrait, suddenly understanding why Isabella had made her home her sanctuary. Fear of what the world could do when there was no security, fear of becoming wild and lost… fear of Henry…

Edgar had taken off his wig, underneath which his thin grey hair was wild and in disarray. He was suddenly serious, his tone sad. He was looking at the portrait too.

"I bought this house for her, for my Isabella… it was the best money I have ever spent. She loved it here, this little corner of Paris. And we had over twenty years of happiness. It's really too big for an old man like me; and soon Peter will leave too, but I could never leave… she would not want me to."

Erik could not take his eyes from the picture. Somehow, Edgar's words turned the oils into flesh, and her eyes sparkled with tears, he could see the fear there, fear of murder, fear of a man she had loved, a young girl lost and alone … And then, later, the joy and happiness found in a new home, a man that had given her shelter and salvation, a child in a city of light - love… pure love.

Erik knew that he was neither of those men. He had left the murderer behind, but he was not a saviour or a gentleman. What was he? He did not know, perhaps he would never know. He looked back at the portrait and shuddered; for an insane instant it was Christine looking back at him, her soft eyes managing to break down every wall he had ever built. He could see her smiling slightly as he touched her face, as his skin had smoothed the surface of her cheek. Had he imagined that smile? Or had it really happened…

"I am sorry for your loss," he said, turning to Edgar.

"I have my memories," the old man chuckled wistfully. Then he picked up his discarded wig. "I was not always this eccentric fool, you know. Once I was not so very different from you, life was a serious game… but the day Isabella died I vowed I would not wallow, and that I would always try to make the world smile. I'm not a complete loon!" And then he said quietly, "Just in case you had any money riding on it…"

Erik shook his head. "Not a single centime."

Edgar smiled. "I am glad to hear it."

"I should go," Erik said, glancing at the clock. "I have a busy evening ahead of me."

"No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"Precisely," Erik said with a sardonic smile. "I will call again soon. I must thank you again for your help, I appreciate it more than you realise."

"I know, my boy," Edgar laughed, and then he walked Erik to the door.

When the door closed behind him, Erik descended the steps slowly, breathing in the cool early evening air. His mind was swimming with the events of the day, with his new plan, his strange friendship with Edgar, with Christine… always Christine. She was inside his every movement, in his blood and in his bones. Everything he wanted. Everything he could never have.

He pretended he was walking home to a place where she was waiting for him. To a home that was his and hers.

From the outside, the windows would glow with amber firelight. The warmth would caress his face when he entered, and she would be everywhere… the air would retain the soft aroma of her hair, every sound would be music, her voice would resonate though every room…. and she would look up and smile at him as he entered, his Christine.

He pretended all the way home.

oOo


	21. Before We Fall

_AN: I really want to apologise for the temporary hiatus of this story – it was not intentional! My life has been topsy-turvy and inside out recently, and finding time to write has been really difficult. But I am actively working on this again now and the next chapter should be up within a week or so! If you are still reading, please continue to let me know what you think!_

_I would like to thank my wonderful beta, Goth Angel UK, for all of the help with this story!_

* * *

_Now she has gone away;_

_Unwillingly perhaps._

_The parting will eat them up,_

_Misery will gnaw at them, bones and all._

Boris Pasternak – Doctor Zhivago.

oOo

_**Before We Fall…**_

oOo

The smell of fresh coffee cleansed Christine's sleepy mind. She wandered into the small kitchen feeling drained and ill at ease; the clock had just chimed seven, and she did not have much time to spare before she had to leave for work. But on this morning there was another reason for her confusion. She had expected to be the first one to arise this day, but, strangely, Meg was in the kitchen, busily preparing coffee and arranging fresh pastries onto two plates.

She and Meg were alone for two weeks. Madame Giry had been called to the aid of an ailing cousin, and had departed the pervious day. The older woman had been loath to leave the girls and her new post as Ballet Mistress at the _Theatre Lyrique _– but she had had very little choice. Her cousin had asked for her, and family duty was very important to Madame Giry.

So, she had reluctantly left the ballet in the hands of another senior member, and Christine and Meg with clear and strict guidelines to follow in her absence. Christine had seen the fear in Madame Giry's eyes before she had left, silently begging her to stay away from the man they were both afraid to name. Neither had spoken of him since Christine's confession two months ago; he had become an elusive and forbidden entity, a fledgling truth they were at risk of turning into a fantasy once again.

"Good morning!" Meg chirped when she saw Christine appear in the doorway.

"Morning," Christine replied drowsily. She looked at her friend for a moment; Meg was fully dressed with her hair styled. Christine was perplexed – this was the girl who did not normally rise until just before noon.

"Meg – how long have you been awake?" Christine asked, her voice still laced with sleep.

"Oh, about an hour or so – I wanted to get to the bakers before the rush, these pastries are to die for!"

"You've already been out?" Christine said, unable to hide her astonishment.

"Yes," Meg said with a slight giggle. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just, well – you have never been very fond of the mornings..."

Meg smiled and brought the pastries to where Christine was sitting at the table. Christine took a sip of her coffee and tore off a small piece of pastry, revelling in the way the soft texture seemed to melt in her mouth. She glanced across the table and noticed that Meg was staring at her with wild, exited eyes.

"Are you all right?"

"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone – not even mamman?"

"Of course."

"We have finally set the date!" Meg said, looking as though she was about to burst.

"Date?" Christine asked, bemused. It was strange to be talking with Meg so early in the morning, and it took her mind a moment to take in what her exited friend was saying.

"For the wedding? Meg, that is wonderful!"

"Three months, can you believe it? I'm so happy, Christine! Three months and I'll be _Madame Lockhart_, no longer plain little Meg Giry!"

Christine frowned. "You have never been plain."

Meg smiled, taking the complement gratefully. "It is going to be a very small ceremony… we don't want a fuss."

This baffled Christine even more. "I always imagined you would have a large, lavish wedding… like the one you used to talk about when we were little..."

"Yes, I know, that's what I _did_ want – before. But now I do not want any of that nonsense, I just want to marry Peter…"

Christine felt a warm smile spread on her face; she had never seen Meg like this. "Well, I am very happy for you – and I cannot wait for the wedding. Heaven knows I need something to look forward to!"

She tried to ignore the look of pity in Meg's blue eyes. They both returned to their breakfast, sipping coffee and nibbling on bread and almonds. Christine was truly happy for her best friend. Meg had always been a beacon of light in her life – one constant ray in the darkness. She was glad that Meg was the first one to marry. In Peter, it seemed she had found her soul mate… her perfect match…

The foggy haze in Christine's mind began to swirl, shining a painful light into the dusty crevices in her memory. Shadowy vaults were awakening in candlelight. This was happening more and more often - one small word causing a stampede of memories to charge furiously back. Words of long ago echoed into her head; in the Opera, in a dressing room… there had been a sweet scent – the scent of roses, strings of a corset were being pulled tight. A night when wise words had been spoken…

Before the hysteria of _Don Juan_, Christine had found the tumult inside her own head louder than the humming anticipation of the impatient crowd. Her heart had been weary, aching and confused.

She had known she could not deny her feelings, wrong as they were. She had always known. But it had all been wrong, so, so wrong.

Madame Giry would often talk to her whilst helping her to dress, and on that night, on that awful, painful night, Christine had asked about love…

"It is never simple, that is the first thing you should know," the older woman had said with a smile. "Sometimes it seems perfect, but _never _simple. Sometimes two people meet who are equal in every way, and when they fall in love it is the most natural thing in the world – like le Vicomte and yourself. But the world is cruel, child, and love chooses us, we do not choose love. We cannot judge others for the choices they make. Sometimes it is not easy, and it may even seem wrong – but it is still love… It will come in many forms. And you may find that there will be more than one man that will capture your heart… but the important thing is to be happy with the path you choose."

Madame Giry had tugged the corset strings, and she had felt like her ribs would snap. Christine remembered looking down at her hands, clasped together tightly, her fingers turning white where she squeezed her anxiety into her hands. Madame Giry had made it all seem easy… Follow your heart and it will be all right. It was fine to harbour tempestuous desires for a murderer, to see beyond the deception and the lies, to bleed with compassion and ache for him. Yes, it was all so simple… label it _love_ and it would turn out all right.

But she had not known if it was love. Perhaps it was hate; perhaps it was remorse, pity or even desire. But love? She had not known. Every label had caused the same unconditional ache to throb inside her body and she had felt so many things; it was more than love – much more. And she had known, in that moment, that she would never be entirely free.

Some chains are not made from cold iron… the shackles we choose to wear ourselves can be made from silk.

"…but, the most important question to ask yourself when you are faced with a dilemma about love is: which is the only love you cannot live without? Once you know this, my dear, it should all fall into place," Madame Giry had added, then she had pulled the final strings of the corset and stood back to check her work.

Christine had looked the older woman in the eyes then, and could not face the truth she had seen shining back at her.

Then she had been called to the stage…

She blinked, and took a sip of her coffee – the world was real again. But that memory lodged itself in her heart, chilling her blood with melancholy.

"Meg, how do you feel – when you're with Peter?"

"In what way?"

"How does he make you feel?"

"Warm, safe, loved… and light – so light that I feel like I might fly!"

Christine nodded, but this was not the response she had hoped for.

"Does it ever… hurt?" she ventured, timidly.

Meg knew what Christine wanted her to say – but she could not lie. "No, not with Peter… But there was someone else, once. Please don't look at me like that, I cannot tell you who. But the love I had for him was very different – painful, even."

"What happened?" Christine said, almost in a whisper.

"He did not love me, and that was that," Meg said, shrugging absently, then her face transformed into a grin. "But it wasn't long after that that I met Peter, so now I am glad he did not love me – fate triumphed!"

Christine smiled too; Meg's euphoria seemed to be contagious.

"Have you seen anything of – um, _him_," Meg asked, suddenly serious.

Christine saw that Meg was struggling, and supplied the name for her. "Erik?"

Meg nodded.

"No – and I do not expect to. He gave me his word, and I believe him. I am free now." She looked down. "I'd be surprised if he is even still in Paris." Her voice was low and strange, something akin to misery tinting it.

"He is," Meg confirmed, adding some more sugar to her coffee – oblivious to the red heat that flared over Christine's cheeks and neck. "It seems he is quite good friends with Monsieur Edgar. I have not told Peter who he really is, mamman was right – it would not be fair. Everyone deserves another chance."

Christine kept her eyes at the table, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Has Peter met him?"

"Yes – he finds him to be a very amiable gentleman," Meg gave a snort. "I can hardly believe it – The Phantom, friends with Edgar, living normally in the daylight… I'd never have thought it possible. It seems he really has changed."

"Yes," Christine said, "who would have guessed."

"Perhaps I should invite him to the wedding…"

Christine's mask slipped, and she looked at Meg with complete terror, her cheeks stinging with a scarlet blush. Meg was grinning wildly; it was clear from her playful smirk that she had been joking. Christine smiled too, pretending to be amused.

"I should go – I'll be late," she said, suddenly conscious of the time.

"I'll be late tonight," Meg said. "Peter is taking me out after the performance – will you be all right?"

"Yes, I'll be fine – good luck tonight!"

She gave Meg a small hug and ran to her room to prepare for work… her body still wild and burning.

oOo

It was raining. Erik stood at his window, watching the endless cycle with subdued fascination. The drops hit sporadically, biting at the glass like watery teeth, trying to gnaw at him, but stopping dead and falling before his eyes. They would drizzle down, leaving a serpentine smear in their wake – clear, pure and soft. For a moment Erik imagined the sky was raining blood, all of the windows drowning in red – crimson bullets pelting the earth. Murder dripping into the gutter.

He smirked; it was amazing how these dark thoughts still had the ability to creep into his mind, even when he was quite sure he had chased them all away…

Time had passed quickly. It had been two months since the painful meeting with Christine, and yet to Erik it seemed like only yesterday. That night he had left Edgar's house with a new purpose to his life – he had gone mad, clearing out all evidence that would associate him with Henry. The plans and papers had been ripped up, and then deposited on the fire of two very grateful beggars.

"Here, gentlemen, some kindling for you…" Erik had said, releasing the burden into the flames. The men had stared, fascinated by the mysterious stranger cloaked in darkness and firelight. They had thanked him profusely, rubbing their frozen hands against the blaze. Erik had watched the paper curl and smoulder with a grim smile, wishing he could burn his guilt in the same way. Then he had simply tipped his hat and left, leaving them to gape after him in amazement.

He had briefly wondered what would happen if he torched his soul – would he find goodness in the ashes?

Since that night his life had been in a painful limbo. He was only using Henry's rooms for the few hours that he required sleep; he did not want to use them any more than was necessary. The very thought of his previous intentions made his skin itch, he wanted to be somewhere that was untainted by corruption and deceit. The very air in this place was stagnant, it contaminated his mind – it was easy to remain a monster whist living in a hovel.

He knew why the poor sought crime as a career choice – _revenge_. Revenge against the spoilt and rich for their clean lives and golden homes, revenge against the world for making them live in the darkness. A person forced to live a life of filth and destitution, with their eyes covered in dirt, will inhabit the sewers like a germ. Ignorant to the chances life offered, ignorant to the light. Living in this grim corner of the city had made Erik see the stark difference between himself and these others, they were content in this grime, it was their world. Erik, on the other hand, had the means to save himself. And the dismal irony was that he had always had it, it was not circumstance that forced his face into the shadows – it was him. He had always had the power to escape, to rise up and save his own soul. It had been with him all along.

He did not want gold, silk or a shining mansion on a distant hill – just somewhere to call home. A home that was not a cellar…

The growth of this small conscience could not have come at a more inconvenient time. He desperately needed somewhere to hide away, for his desire to find Christine was like a poisonous ache, something he could not control. And now he knew her address! It was too difficult to ignore, it was irresistible. The sound of her sweet voice saying it echoed inside his mind – a dangerous, deadly temptation.

Each day that passed made the image of her face sharper in his mind; he could see the curve of her neck, the small dimples on her cheeks when she smiled, her warm eyes... But he did not want a memory – he had loved a memory for too long! He wanted her as she was now, he wanted the real, breathing Christine – alive, warm and in his arms. Walking the streets seemed to only make his desire more potent. The light, the beauty of Paris, and the smell of the air – everything made him think of her! It was futile, he knew, to think of her as often as he did… to hope. But he could not help it, to not think of her would be to cease living.

But he could not find her or follow her. He had made a promise – the fool that he was! He had given freedom to the only thing he wanted, and he loved her too much to go back on his word.

And so, he forced himself to wander the boulevards, trying in vain to feel comfortable in the daylight. He tried to sleep when the rest of the world was asleep, and wake to the sound of twittering birds. It was not easy; his mind seemed to come to life at night, it would take more than two months to change the behaviour learned over a lifetime. And, after a while, he found walking the streets to be a rather tedious exercise. The cold wind chilled his bones, the faces were endless, and he felt as though he had committed every corner of the damned city to memory.

He needed an occupation, this much was clear. But he did not know what…

More and more he had found himself drawn to Edgar's door. He enjoyed the short, but interesting conversations he shared with his strange friend. There was something oddly refreshing about the Edgar's eccentricity. It was unusual, yes, but it was honest. The man seemed to wear countless costumes and disguises, but never a mask to hide who he really was. And the more time he spent with him, the more Erik was growing to respect the old man. On several occasions Erik heard himself ask after Peter and his fiancée. Hoping Edgar would mention Meg and her family… and the name he so longed to hear.

The sale of his new home was nearly complete. Much of the transaction had been handled by Edgar. Erik, in spite of himself, had been content to let the old man help. On the occasions he did have to meet with the solicitor alone he had been surprised by how little interest the man had taken in his face. The old man had grumbled something about the '_bloodbath of 1870_' and had given Erik a sympathetic, almost admiring glance – as though he was looking at a brave soldier who had taken a mortal wound for the love of France. Erik had no intention of correcting this misunderstanding, and had played along demurely.

_Larsson_, his adopted surname, also seemed to be working in his favour. It seemed that it was quite common, and in fact, the old solicitor was sure he had once known an _Umberto Larsson_ – a meat-trader from the Rue Richelieu. Who apparently bore a striking resemblance to Erik – a distant relative, perhaps? The solicitor had wondered. Erik had smiled pleasantly and nodded, agreeing that, yes, _perhaps_ it was.

The rain was still falling; the onslaught was unrelenting. And although it was only afternoon, the whole day seemed to have the dreary aura of dusk. There was something soothing about this day, Erik thought, it was lost in the transition of morning and night – black and white clashing, leaving a smog of grey melancholy to fester in the air. Something about it made him feel at home. He strode over to the coat-stand and retrieved his cloak and umbrella; he wanted to smell the damp aroma of the streets and clear his head with the moisture-laced air.

The streets seemed to be in a strange reverie. The amber hues of the gas-lit lamps shimmered up into the dull sky and down into the mirrored world beneath. Their glow of gold and ochre was the only warmth in a world of silver echoes. The people, too, were wraith-like – heads veiled and bowed, clinging to each other, walking next to the damp walls to avoid the rain.

This was nothing like the usual afternoons on the boulevards of Paris. The people were avoiding contact and idle conversation, they were scurrying home, or into shops and cafés. There was something rodent-like about their movements, and it reminded Erik of the rats beneath the Opera, scampering around in the cold. It suddenly dawned on him that he had not thought about his old home for a considerable amount of time – the sudden memory of that place caused an unguarded shiver to convulse through his body.

He strode along the boulevard with an unusual lightness to his step, head raised and proud, in harsh opposition to the other figures in the street. If every day in Paris was like this one, he mused, he was sure he would feel very comfortable indeed.

oOo

It was turning out to be a very bad day. Christine charged along the boulevard, caught somewhere between misery and anger. It had been a long, exhausting day. Beneath her gloves her skin tingled where her delicate fingers had been pricked and stabbed by the needle. She hated the work; she hated it with every fibre in her soul. She was not popular with the other women. They studied her with cautious, envious eyes, and would not speak to her. So her days were spent in silent reflection, talking to nobody and humming as she worked. The humming was a new thing, it seemed that every day there would be a new melody inside her mind – waiting for her to shape it with her voice and release it out into the air.

But still she loathed the work, it was beneath her – _he _was right. Madame Giry had suggested that she join the ballet at the theatre. It seemed she was keen for Christine to undertake a role more suited to her talents, and after today Christine was giving the idea some very serious thought.

With Madame Giry away, however, it would be another two weeks before she would have the chance to audition.

In her hasty departure, Madame Giry had also left several errands for Christine and Meg. And it was one of these errands that Christine found herself tasked with on this cold, miserable afternoon.

Her only defence against the drizzle was Madame Giry's rickety, tired black umbrella. It rattled like a serpent as the wind blew, wailing and hissing with each icy gust. It was taking most of Christine's strength to keep it from blowing inside out, and inevitably the wind's mischief prevailed and the umbrella eventually tossed and rattled out of control. A group of smartly dressed women sitting inside a café sniggered – grinning smugly from behind the safety of the glass. Christine fumbled with the wily umbrella, willing it to close, her cheeks red and hot with mortification. In her mind she spat curses at those women – words she did not realise she knew.

When she had regained her composure, as well as her control over the umbrella, she set off again, harassed and tired. She wanted to be at home, curled in front of the fire with a steaming cup of tea to melt her weariness, to let the warm sensations surge languidly through her body… or perhaps to be comforted in a warm embrace, lost in a soaring passion that could drive the chill from her bones. In this freezing state it was very hard to keep her mind away from that forbidden warmth, the tender, dangerous heat she had found in the eyes of a man two months ago. The knowledge that his arms were real, that his blood ran beneath, that his hand would hold an umbrella over her head while she held onto his arm tightly – these were things she could not think about, but her body and her heart were stirred by the thought of him, much to her alarm.

Every now and again she would look over her shoulder, just for a second. She did this every time she walked down the street – she had done it for as long as she could remember, always glancing back… always wondering where that other path might lead.

She turned left onto the Rue d'Antin, finally reaching her destination. She climbed the steps slowly and rang the door bell, hoping there would be a warm fire inside. She stood there for a while, listening to the fat drips of rain that splattered onto the stone steps, until the door finally opened and she was admitted into the house.

The housekeeper, a small, stocky woman, gave a silent gasp when she saw Christine's wet attire, then promptly ushered her inside and took her cloak and umbrella from her, fussing about anxiously.

"You look chilled to the bone, Mademoiselle!" she exclaimed with horror. "You poor dear, and such a little thing too, it's a wonder you weren't blown away!"

"Oh, no I'm fine, really," Christine said, trying to avoid the fussing hands. "It is not nearly as bad as it looks…"

The older woman raised a doubtful brow and gave a snort.

"I called by to deliver this letter to Monsieur Lockhart," Christine said. "Is he at home?"

"Oh, yes," the housekeeper beamed. "The master never goes out in weather like this. He's in the sitting-room, I'll tell him you're here." With that she trundled off down the hall and into the sitting-room. There had been no indication that Christine should follow, so she waited in the hallway with her hands clasped in front of her. Every now and then she would shiver slightly from the draughty air. From the corner of her eye she noticed a drop of rain slide down one of her curls, it trembled at the tip briefly, and then dropped to the floor.

She shivered again.

The housekeeper appeared again a few moments later, shaking her head. Christine walked towards her.

"He is upstairs," she said, pointing to the ceiling. "Apparently trying to find an old book or some such nonsense – I'll go and find him. Come and warm yourself in here, my dear." Christine followed her into the sitting-room. "I gather you are acquainted with Monsieur Larsson?"

Christine's heart jolted. Erik's eyes flicked to her immediately. She could only manage a brief nod in response to the housekeeper's question. A purple haze was enveloping her vision and her legs seemed to evaporate; the only thing she could focus on was his face. Everything else in the room was blurred and she was only vaguely aware of a fire, and warmth.

Her pulse was throbbing in her ears.

Erik stood up with a start and the sudden movement caused Christine to jump slightly.

"Mademoiselle," he said after a few tense seconds, bowing awkwardly to her as he said it.

"Monsieur," Christine smiled and dipped her head in a polite response, the cold air that had been swirling in her bones now turned into a deep heat; she could feel it stinging the insides of her cheeks. The sound of her voice increased Erik's breathing.

The housekeeper smiled and plodded back into the hallway, closing the door with a _click_.

Erik remained standing; his arms were now folded, his posture was stiff. He was wearing that mask again – the strange brown mask that was more human, but just as unnerving as the old one. Christine wanted to rip it from his face; skin was always more alive than a mask, scars or no scars – it didn't matter to her now. She wanted to see his skin.

She felt like the rain was now pouring inside her head, she felt drowned – weighed down. The sensations rippled through her, dripping into her soul and making her heart heavy.

"You're here…" she said, in a tone even _she _did not understand.

"Yes," Erik said, with one of his indifferent smiles.

There seemed to be a nauseating sensation inside Christine with every breath she took.

"Are you visiting socially?" she asked, smiling weakly.

He seemed annoyed by this question and his eyes deepened into a scowl.

"No, _business."_

"Oh..."

Business? Christine thought with horror. What possible business could Erik have with Edgar? An eccentric old man and an erstwhile Opera Ghost… suddenly her heart seemed to be racing for a different reason. She felt her eyebrow rise slightly. Erik seemed to notice her anxiety and his frown melted into a smirk.

"Are you investing in one of Edgar's enterprises?"

"No, unfortunately not," Erik said – his tone laced with acid. "It is a private matter, mademoiselle. But his counsel has been most rewarding."

It was a simple answer, innocent words – but his voice turned them into venom. Christine swallowed hard; it always seemed to be so difficult to talk to him. She knew what he was doing – intimidating her so she would continue to be afraid, hiding his discomfort behind malevolence.

She could not identify this burning – was she glad to see him? His eyes had not left hers and she could not fathom the emotion that seemed to be radiating from them. Light and shadow swirled in them eerily.

"You ran away," she said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"You ran away," she repeated. "When I followed you..."

"Ah, yes," he said with a nasty smirk. "It was quite the role reversal, was it not?"

She chose to ignore his tone, trying to think of something else to say – unable to take her eyes from him, unable to look away. He seemed so cold, angry and defensive. A barricade manifested into the form of a man, ready to withstand any onslaught she tried to fire at him. But she could see it in his eyes, he was breaking – he was afraid of her. Her blood was throbbing, but she decided to speak through her fear.

"That day, Erik, I followed you for a reason." She noticed him flinch slightly at the sound of his name on her lips. "I had something to tell you –"

"There is no need," he interrupted, "I would rather we did not discuss it."

He smiled at her faintly then, making her heart stop – but she chose to ignore his false civility.

"I wanted to tell you that I was sorry too –"

"Please, Christine – _not now_!" he said in a harsh whisper, staring at the door with panic.

"I wanted to say that I am sorry about it all, all of it!" she whispered desperately, tears gathering in her eyes. Erik turned away sharply, facing the window.

"That's enough!" he snapped.

"I'm sorry, Erik... I'm so sorry," a tear rolled down Christine's cheek and fell into her hair.

For a moment there was only the sound of her sobs, mingling with the hiss and crack of the fire. Christine watched Erik's back contort heavily; she wanted to run to him – to break these strange barriers that seemed to condemn them both. Erik turned around and took a few swift paces towards her, hunger alight in his eyes. They merged with hers, blocking out the world around them.

Just then, Edgar burst into the room.

"I couldn't find it, Larsson. I'll have another look later… Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé! What a lovely surprise!"

Christine wiped her face and then turned to the old man with a warm smile. She felt as if she was back on stage.

"Did you walk in the rain, child?" Edgar said in alarm. "You look chilled to the bone!"

Christine felt Erik's eyes upon her too, as if he had only just realised how soaked she was. His gaze made her skin prickle.

"Oh, yes…" she said, looking down at her sopping dress. "I was caught in it on my walk here… I called to give you this," she took a letter out of the pocket of her dress, the edges were damp and curling. "It is from Madame Giry, about the wedding…"

"Ah, splendid. But you should not have come all of this way just to deliver this! I'm sure it could have waited," Edgar said, taking the letter and placing it in his pocket. Then he gestured towards Erik. "Do you remember Monsieur Larsson?"

"Yes," Christine said, smiling in Erik's direction… dying inside.

"I'm helping Larsson with some business, though why he seeks help from an old fool like me I'll never know!" Edgar chucked, looking at Erik.

"Your instruction has been most welcome," Erik said amiably.

Edgar laughed and turned back to Christine.

"Will you stay for some tea, Miss Daaé? Larsson was just about to leave, but we could have a nice chat by the fire!"

"I would love to, but perhaps another time? I should really go home and get into some dry clothes," Christine said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable in her wet attire.

"Of course," Edgar chuckled. "Forgive me, you really should get back. Have you a carriage waiting?"

"No, I was going to walk –"

"In this weather?" Edgar laughed. "Don't be absurd, allow me to give you carriage fare." He took some money from his pocket and forced it into her cold hand.

"No, please – I'll be fine –"

"Nonsense! I will not hear of you walking in this terrible weather; in fact, I really do not like the thought of you travelling alone!"

Edgar clicked his tongue in thought for a few seconds and then raised his eyebrows in triumph.

"Larsson, you're a trustworthy fellow –" Erik looked like he was about to choke "– will you see that Mademoiselle Daaé gets home safely?"

For a few moments Erik felt able to only stare at them, his countenance recoiling behind his mask – not knowing if he should laugh, cry or run. But then his eyes darkened, and his posture changed, reminding Christine of a man she had once seen inside a mirror. He placed his hat on his head and gave them a gracious smile.

"Of course, it would be my pleasure." His smile was reserved, but Christine could see the inferno in his eyes. She trembled.

"Splendid!" Edgar chirped. "I will see you in two days, for the final signing."

"Excellent. I shall look forward to it," Erik said. "Thank you for an interesting afternoon, Monsieur."

In the moments that passed Christine felt as though they were all involved in a bizarre parody sketch. The housekeeper fussed with her cloak, and put an extra shawl over her shoulders to keep her warm. She and Erik did not dare to look at one another, but both nodded and laughed politely at Edgar's quips and witticisms. The two men went outside to hail a hansom, and she stood in the doorway, her heart stinging with a numb discomfort, then Edgar helped her down the steps to the waiting carriage. Smiling brightly and saying he would see her again soon, and he then shook Erik's hand and hobbled back up into the house.

Erik gestured for Christine to tell the driver her address whilst holding an umbrella over her head. She could not find her voice and had to clear her throat, at the same time trying to hide her surprise; she had assumed he would remember…

"Did you expect me to have committed it to memory?" Erik asked coldly.

Christine glared at him, and then politely told the driver the address. She ignored Erik's offered hand and climbed into the carriage unaided. Erik climbed in after her and settled on the bench, resting his hands on his knees.

The carriage moved off with a jolt, and after a few moments the streets were rolling by, obscured by the onslaught of rain. The lamps became brighter as the curtain of darkness seemed to fall before them, trapping them in this strange melodrama they were both playing so well.

Christine felt sick. He was so close, she could hear him breathing – a small whistle escaped his nose with each breath. His familiar scent whirled through her body. The rocking of the carriage and the clack of horse hooves served only to increase her building frustration.

She was very aware that they were not speaking, and it was clear that Erik had no intention of attempting any form of conversation. He seemed content to let this opportunity pass them by. They were alone, and so close – and he did not care.

Christine's anger stirred.

"Are we to be silent the entire way?" she asked petulantly.

Erik turned and gazed at her mildly, a long, cold look that made her hold her breath.

"I think silence is wise – given the circumstances."

His look was one of such arrogance that Christine had to clamp her teeth together. She could see her scowl reflected in his eyes. Erik smiled – it seemed to please him.

"…Unless there was something in particular you wanted to discuss?"

Christine turned away, silently seething.

She felt his eyes on her again, but did not turn to meet his gaze, afraid that if she did, she would be pulled in and not be able to come up for air. It was getting dark, but as she gazed up at the sky Christine could see the clouds parting, patches of dark blue appeared in the silent sky, sapphires buried within coal. The rain seemed to be stopping. The streets were more alive, young men and women were strolling along – carefree as a breeze. Perhaps they were on their way to the theatre, or to dinner, or perhaps they were walking home… they had the choice, they were free, they were alive.

Christine turned to the ghost next to her. He was still looking at her, but his eyes had calmed. Apparently her distress was no longer amusing. She heard a sigh escape from the back of his throat.

"What would you have me say?" he asked.

"Anything…" she said, looking down at her hands.

"Tedious conversation amuses you that much? Would you rather I comment on the weather, economy or current affairs?"

"Do not ridicule me, Erik," she frowned.

She could almost hear his shock; it slashed the air like a whip. Then he laughed slightly and turned back to his window. Christine felt a strange heat in her head and on her arms – anger trembled all the way to her core. When she spoke her voice was low and calm, but laced with tears and hurt, "I want to know who I am, why I am so unhappy, why I am unable to escape you, I want to understand why I cannot sing. I want to know why I feel all of the things I feel, why I am scared of you, why I am in awe of you. I want to know about your life and where you have been for the last two years, why you came back, and if you are planning to leave again! I want to know who you are! I want to understand you… and all you do is mock me!"

His eyes were wild, he looked as though he was about to explode – charge out of the carriage and topple it over in a murderous rage. Or open the door and throw her out into the street…

The shine of a gas lamp fell across the unmasked side of his face, illuminating it. His skin was tense, and his mouth was agape, and there were lines of frustration and sorrow on his furrowed brow. But in that instant his eyes were brilliant, they caught hers with a clash of swords in the sunlight – wild, passionate and deadly.

Christine sat up instantly and forced her mouth against his, needing that sensation again. Needing to feel him. She kissed him with all of her anger and desire. He was solid at first, frozen with shock, but slowly his mouth welcomed her and tasted her. Then his hands were at her waist, holding her tightly and saving them both from this treacherous tide. But Christine could not stop, even though it was wrong, even though there was so much she needed to know. The feel of him, the smell of him, and the taste of him – it was all like a bizarre homecoming. A home she had never inhabited but had known all her life.

"_Here we are__, M__am'zelle!"_

The carriage had stopped and Christine jumped away from Erik, fear gathering at the back of her throat. She could not speak, or swallow, or make this moment real. She was horrified, horrified with how alive she felt. Then, with two cat-like movements, she was out of the carriage and running towards the house.

It was raining heavily again – the heavens had opened.

oOo

_I want to know who you are!_

Erik's hands were trembling; the smell of Christine was everywhere! Oh, God! What had she done? She should have left him! She should have let him let her go. But now, now she had given him the one thing the executioner should never give the condemned…

Hope.

Slowly he became aware that the carriage was moving away again, pulling him away from her.

"Stop!" he called to the driver. He threw open the door and charged down the steps, throwing some money at the man on his way.

Moments later, with the rain falling heavily onto his back, Erik found himself at Christine's door.

It was unlocked.

oOo


	22. Asphyxia

_AN: All I can say is sorry, especially after the way I left the last chapter. My computer decided to die on me – it took two months to fix! I'm starting to think that someone doesn't want me to finish this story! _

_I hope you like this chapter! As usual, big hugs to my lovely Beta! _

* * *

_Love that is not madness is not love._

- Pedro Calderon de la Barca.

oOo

_**Asphyxia**_

oOo

The door was unlocked.

Erik entered, closing it behind him silently. He stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing deeply. He did not know this house, he did not know whether the little Giry was inside – but he did not care. Not now.

The scent of the house stirred sensations deep within him; sensations that had been dormant for two years. The aroma was alive: sweet and anxious, tinted with musky anticipation. He closed his eyes and let it flow through him, drowning in nostalgia – breathing in the fragrance of his once-beloved Opera. All that time ago he had thought the building was responsible for that magical sensation, but it wasn't – it was the people. The three inhabitants of this house were keeping the essence of the Opera alive. Music was living in the pores of this house.

He walked into the small sitting-room. There was no light, only the dim glow from the gas lamps outside, which gave the room a weary haze. It was like viewing the world in black and white, or through a veil of smoke and ash.

Christine was by the fireplace, standing in front of him. Her face was white and her body seemed to be trembling. The strange darkness made her serene, like a memory made flesh. Her eyes were dark, almost black – large and wild in her lovely face. She did not seem to be shocked by his presence, she was waiting for him – she was not afraid. Erik took a few steps towards her and then stopped; his anger was still ripe and his desire was smothering him – he could not be too close to her.

"You wanted answers," he said, more calmly than he had intended. His voice seemed strange – thin and gruff – as though he was hearing it from a distance. The sound sent a wave of shock through Christine; she nodded slowly – apparently deciding she was brave enough.

He smirked. "Very well."

He saw her draw in a deep breath, holding onto the mantelpiece for support. What did she expect him to say? That he had been here all along, that he had reneged on his pledge to let her go? That he had been secretly haunting her for two years…

She had not seemed scared before, but now she shuddered. Good, he thought. It was only right that she should be afraid.

"Let us do this properly, then! You wanted to know who I am. Here..." he pulled off his hat and ripped the mask from his face.

"…_This_ is me, Christine!" He stabbed a finger into his distorted flesh, making her jump. His face was wild – his eyes ablaze with every shade of an inferno. His mouth was twisted into a hideous sneer, his nostrils flared, like a delirious convict emerging from a sewer. Mad, bad and dangerous.

He held his head high, willing her to look at him. She had wanted to understand, to know why she feared him - well, _this_ was him! Her discomfort was like a drug, making him stronger, firming his resolve. She needed to see him, to face the mess that he was – the shipwreck that was his soul.

"This, Christine," he pointed at the scarred mess of his cheek, "this is why you fear me, why you loathe me and why part of you will always belong to me!"

He walked to stand directly in the small beam of light. "This is the disgraceful monster you hold hands with in the park, the guilty secret you hide in darkness – the murderer you chase after in broad daylight!"

He had chosen those words carefully… monster… murderer… that was what he was, what he had been – the things he could not let himself forget.

"There is nothing more than this, just a distorted mess, inside and out – as you yourself so aptly put it."

He expected to see tears in her eyes, and shame. Her chin wobbled slightly and she took a step backwards, holding her arms around herself. But although she seemed hurt by his poisonous admission, she tried to smile. Her fragile illusions were being smashed on the floor, and she was being forced to walk barefoot across the shards. But she had tried to smile at him. Her strength took the air from his lungs.

Erik took a step towards her; she could see all of him now - the good and bad, the scars and skin. And yet she did not seem to be horrified, only sad.

He continued to speak, his voice low, "I left Paris two years ago." He smiled at her apparent shock. "Oh yes, I am true to my word. I could not bear to be in the same country as you and your beloved boy! All of this was dead to me… you were dead to me – _I_ was dead. I left in the understanding that the boy would marry you, that he would give you a better life…" he looked around at the small house, and at Christine's modest clothing. "I see that he was not a man of his word."

Christine glared at him angrily; apparently she did not like the good name of Raoul de Chagny to be sullied… even now! But she was still silent, she did not speak. _Good girl,_ Erik thought, _do not dare defend his name to me!_

"I do not think it necessary to inform you of my whereabouts for that time, but I did my best to forget you. You should know that I sought to banish you from all thought and feeling. That amount of anger, Christine, it is a black poison – an annihilation of the soul! I hope you never have cause to feel it."

Now her tears fell, but she made no move to wipe them away. They were his punishment – she wanted him to see.

But Erik did not notice; he was pacing the room, caught in the dark recesses of his treacherous mind. Remembering Christine and the boy, the heat of India, the stench of death, Christine's hands holding his on a bright autumn afternoon, her scent carried on the air, his deadly friendship with Henry Cranmer… betrayal after betrayal…

He could no longer look her in the face.

Christine was trying desperately to remember him as he had been earlier today – a calm, reserved gentleman, a man who drank tea with Edgar Lockhart, a man who wore a top hat and walked about in the sunlight… but she could not find him – he was not here. That gentleman was a stranger, one she was only just beginning to know – but she knew all to well the wild soul that stalked about her now. She had seen this man many times before.

Strangely, both of these men seemed to make up the tortured whole that was Erik – he was caught somewhere in the middle of them. It was clear that he still could not see himself – he was still lost. Christine knew that it had been cruel of her to ask him to visit places that would always be polluted by shadows. Memories that would drive him back towards despair.

She had thought shedding light into his darkness would help her to cure her own madness, but she had been wrong – it was not working! It only seemed to make everything worse. She wanted to go to him, but her feet would not move. This time, only the cold floor stood between them, no water would chill her ankles, there was no lace pressing against her hot skin, making it itch. This time it was not Raoul's life she needed to save – it was only her own. But still she could not move; somehow, it seemed so much harder to save herself.

"Now, what other questions did you have… ah, yes, _my past_! This could take some time, you had better sit down!"

"Please, no more," Christine said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"I do not want to hear any more!" she shrieked, moving her hands over her ears.

Erik sneered. "How capricious of you, a mere moment ago you wanted to know everything!"

"Not like this!"

He began to pace the room again, scowling with amusement. "And what, pray, did you expect? Did you expect us to hold hands and cry together, to unburden our souls onto each other and find freedom? This is not a fairytale, Christine! Dear God, your naively is truly astounding – perhaps I should become an angel once more, and you my innocent ingénue! We played those roles to perfection, did we not?"

"Stop it!" she snapped. "I am perfectly aware that this is not a fairytale, Erik! It is thanks to you that I stopped believing in such nonsense!"

She wiped the tears from her eyes, her skin was red raw and exhausted.

"Please," she sighed. "Let us have no more of this."

Erik smiled coldly. "Very well –" Christine allowed herself to breathe, "– but first, there are some things _I_ would like to know."

Christine's skin turned to ash. "What do you mean?"

"It just so happens that I have some questions of my own… it is only fair, is it not? I answered yours – now it is my turn!"

Christine was white, her skin almost incandescent.

"Tell me what you have been doing for the last two years… why that boy is no longer a dog at your heel! Tell me what has happened to you – why you are so changed!"

Christine seemed to be swaying; a statue made from dust.

She was silent.

"Tell me, Christine."

She said nothing, but her chin trembled slightly.

Erik came to stand in front of her, not too close – just out of reach. His anger had calmed, instead something else seemed to be ablaze within him.

"Why did you forget me?" His voice was so sad, so desperate – Christine let out a loud sob, cradling her face in her hands.

Erik laughed – a low, humourless sound. "It was probably a blessing for you that you did! Indeed, I wish I had been given the good fortune to forget myself!"

"It was not a blessing," she managed, looking up at him. Her chin was wobbling again; it was a few moments before she found the strength to speak. When she did, her eyes were large and terrified.

"It did not feel like forgetting – it was like drowning, two years of drowning and darkness! The tide was pulling me away and there was a current dragging me down… so far down, and then there was nothing. I could not find myself!"

Christine saw something spark in Erik's eyes – was it pity? Somehow she found the strength to carry on.

"It was never my intention to forget you, but everyone kept saying that I had to move on, that I had to start my new life. And I tried, I really tried! Raoul was so kind – but he was pushing me too far, it was all too much! I did not know what I wanted. And then one night I did decide. I wanted an end to it all! But they would not listen, so I ran – I was trying to return, to put it right. But I fell – and then I lost all strength and will. Everything since that day has been so black and torturous… I did not forget you – I just couldn't allow myself to remember!" Her breathing was laboured, fatigued.

For a few moments there was only that sound – her soft breaths, in and out, pained and erratic…

Erik was standing very still. "Return where, Christine?"

His eyes smouldered.

In all this time, since Madame Giry had told him about the fall, he had never once thought about why Christine would be running away… or where she had been going.

Her sad eyes gave him his answer, even before her lips moved.

"To you, Erik," she said, almost choking on the words.

Erik felt a new level of despair. Two years, two years of hate, misery and death. And now to find that it had all been in vain… he had been forced to behave like a monster at a time when he could have been becoming a man.

Fate was cruel, so very, very cruel!

…_But_, his mind seemed to whisper. Was it not a blessing, a blessing camouflaged in one of the strangest and darkest disguises? He knew that his soul was still murky, that there were things about him that would be forever black. _But_, the grip on his sanity had improved – albeit very slightly – and there had been a definite alteration. He knew now that Christine would not have survived a life with that other man, The Phantom! He would have destroyed them both, and she would have left – and she would have never come back.

She had always needed to leave him, and he had always needed to let her.

"You do not learn lessons well, do you?" he said gloomily. "I let you go, and then you try to come back!" He laughed at that, even though it was not funny. "I think we should attribute it to the fact that you were not thinking at the time."

"I wasn't," Christine said, she seemed far away – lost. Then she looked at him squarely. "But you must know that I am grateful to you, for what you did – for letting me go. You gave me back my freedom."

"Freedom!" he laughed bitterly. "You are not free, Christine. You will not allow yourself to be free! You have made no attempt to grasp freedom."

"How dare you!"

"I only speak of what I have observed. You have been living in the past; always glancing back – befriending ghosts… you said as much yourself!"

He was close to her now, only a few steps away. "You are still mine – you continually make yourself mine!"

"Stop it!" she snapped. "Stop saying that I'm yours!"

She looked at him, something sparked in her eyes – a flash of wild light on a dark horizon.

"If what you say is true – if I _am_ yours – then make it so. Make me yours…"

He tried to bite back the urge. She was there, and she was so close. And, God, she was beautiful! He needed to be strong, he needed to push her away and leave this house. She did not know what she was doing, what she was saying; she sought to undo all of his hard work with one careless action! He had tried so hard to become a gentleman, a respectable citizen… and she would rather have the monster with her!

But more than those other things, he was a man – a man looking at the only person he had ever loved…

Christine was staring at him intently, urging him to come forward – daring him silently to take a risk, to jump into the abyss with her. At first she was afraid, but then she felt herself grow dark, it was as if her body had finally won out against her mind – letting her have that which her soul craved: a man she did not understand, a feeling that made her ache… a longing that would not subside.

They stood like this for a few moments, eyes wild, shuddering breathing, hearts ignited with a burning light. Hovering on the precipice between desire and sanity.

In two strides Erik found her and claimed her mouth, feeling her hot tongue with his own, lavishing his hands in her hair. He had found heaven, it was not in the clouds, it was not beyond the stars – it was wherever she was, whenever she was with him – it was now.

Hot tremors ran wildly through Christine's veins; her body became aware of his every breath, his every move and caress. Each pulse point inside her was on fire, all crying out to be touched, soothed, to be wanted. The way he grabbed her back, tasted her mouth, the way he pulled her small body against him – all made Christine feel as though she was drowning in flames. Her neck, her cheeks - every inch of her skin was ablaze with sensations that were at once primal and foreign.

It was happening so fast, each blissful, torturous haze descending into the next. Each moment chained to the other. Christine's back hit the wall, and Erik lifted her, she was surprised by her own actions as her body welcomed him, she wanted feel him close to her… to know how he felt and uncover his secrets. The need within her was so ripe, she knew now that these feelings could not be ignored. It did not feel like lust, or desire, or even love. Right then it was just a need. This was her real soul, the part of her she had been fighting, and she was finally allowing herself to have it all – to be lost and wild.

But then his kisses became soft, almost tender. She felt her feet at the floor again, but still clung to him, she wanted him to be close. She kept her eyes closed, even when his kisses ceased, even when all she could feel was his warm breath against her face, even when his gaze was the only thing touching her skin…

His arms were still holding her tightly.

"Christine…" she heard him say, his voice coaxing her from her trance.

She opened her eyes. He was so close that she could hardly see him. All she could see was the need and fear in his eyes, the desire he was suppressing…

She knew what his fear was; he expected her to push him away, to scream and run. There was passion in his eyes, but tonight it was not passion that either of them needed. Desire would be a quick fix – another excuse for them both to gorge on darkness, to stay within the confines of their madness.

What they both needed was something else; the need to feel human – the need to be needed.

Christine put both of her hands against Erik's cheeks, the normal and the scarred, his face was hot and she felt her skin fuse with his. He frowned and tried to pull away – but she would not let go.

"Please," she whispered. "No more anger…"

She smiled at him, but he continued to frown.

"Your clothes, Christine," he said.

Christine suddenly felt an intense pang; perhaps his intentions were darker than she thought… She moved her hands away, burned.

Erik was studying her dress, and then her hair…

"You are still soaking wet – you will make yourself ill."

Christine ran her palms over her skirt, feeling the icy dampness against her skin. He was right, her sodden clothing was cold – making her skin feel like marble.

"Oh," she said, embarrassed. "I'd forgotten…"

"I should leave. You must change out of those clothes and warm yourself," he said, proper again, suddenly conscious.

But this time it was different – he was not wearing his mask. His face, his whole face, showed genuine concern and affection. As warm as a candle in a distant window – something about this moment was more intimate than the kiss they had just shared. Christine wished she could touch it.

"Could you not stay a little longer?" Christine heard herself ask.

She could see the conflict within him – yearning to stay, and yet knowing that he should go. If he stayed even a moment longer they would both fall apart, give in to the temptation that was aflame within them both – flickering with the fury of a Matador's burning flag…

_Meg!_ she thought suddenly – with a deep, icy terror that spread across her neck. Meg could come back at any moment… her palms began to sweat.

"I think it is best that I leave you, for tonight at least. I would never forgive myself if you were to become unwell –"

Then, without warning, his hand flew to his face – and she saw him wince at the feel of his own flesh. He was naked before her, and his rational side could not cope. She wanted to tell him that she would rather see his face than the mask, that she hated the mask! But she did not; she was silent.

Erik fell to his knees, scrambling about for his mask and hat, searching with his hands, like a starved man scavenging for crumbs. She could hear his sigh of relief when he found them, as though the mask was made from gold. He fixed it into place and then stood up slowly, and then he put his hat on. She saw him breathe deeply.

Only then did he turn around to face her – something in his posture had changed.

"I should go…"

Christine nodded slowly. Erik attempted a smile; his voice was composed, almost ordinary. "Will you be all right?"

She nodded. "Yes, Meg will be home any moment now."

"Good."

He walked to her, taking in the way she looked in this moment – inhaling her. Then he took her hand. Hers was cold, clammy – his was hot. Christine did not know what he intended to do, or what he wanted to do… But he simply held it for a few moments, cherishing it, remembering – then he set it free.

He tried to turn away then, to untangle his soul from her, walk towards the door, open it, step outside – and never look back. But he could not.

"May I see you again?" he asked, his voice was slightly hoarse. Christine could see by the pain in his eyes that it was killing him, that he did not want to ask. That he could not face another rejection.

"Of course," she said softly. "I am free tomorrow – Meg has another performance, so –"

"Very well, I will call on you… if that is convenient?"

"Yes..."

Christine felt odd – as though she was watching this from the ceiling, looking down on them. Who were they – the two people in this room? This man and woman who argued as though they owned the same soul, these lovers who kissed as though they shared the same bones – these shy strangers who politely organised another meeting together. Sweethearts who still did not know each other…

She felt Erik kiss her hand, and smiled at him. And then before she knew it she was pulling his face down to her, guiding him to her and kissing him again. The propriety and the pretence was suffocating, she wanted the passionate man – not the reserved stranger. But each moment with him seemed like a constant gamble, she never knew which man she was going to get. She held onto the lapels of his coat with her small hands… trying to keep him this way.

When they parted Erik held her to him, feeling her bones against his. He rested the unmasked side of his face against her damp hair, repeating _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow! _inside his head; if he did not do this he would not be able to leave tonight.

And then he was gone, the door clicked shut. They had not said goodbye, it seemed to be an impossible word. The house stood silent – empty. It was as though he had never been there.

The glow from the street lamp faltered as he walked past the window, momentarily blocking out the light.

Christine stood in the same place for what seemed to her an eternity. She could not move. Blank thoughts were whirling in her mind; occasional words came out of the fog, words she could not locate or make sense of – a flutter of invisible butterflies whirling about her head.

She suddenly felt very cold – she shivered, and then ran to her room. She needed to be free of her wet clothing, she needed warmth. She undressed quickly, and set to drying her hair, her hands shaking violently. Then she pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed.

Her lips felt slightly bruised and her skin tingled, Erik's scent seemed to still cling to her skin. The shivers that ran through her were lingering, enduring. She could not stop trembling, even though she was warm and dry – even though she was safe. She could hear her heart throbbing inside her pillow.

About an hour later, Meg came back. Christine could hear the muffled tones and sweet words exchanged between her and Peter, giggling as they stood on the doorstep – the silence as he kissed her goodnight; all very sweet, all very proper. Then Peter's footsteps as he walked away – he did not come inside.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and pulled the sheets up to her chin, trying to swallow past the burning lump in her throat.

She wondered which way the dice would roll; which man would come to call on her tomorrow. The proud, respectable man or the lost soul with burning eyes… She did not know which one she would rather see – or which one she feared most.

She knew she would not sleep tonight.

oOo


	23. I've Been Waiting

_Big hugs to my beta, and thank you all so much for all of the feedback so far! :)_

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_In his company, I am grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections._

- Jane Austen.

oOo

_**I've Been Waiting**_

oOo

The old solicitor levelled a confused stare at the man who sat opposite him. He had already asked the man to repeat himself twice, and he knew he was at risk of causing his new client to loose what small measure of patience he had.

The man opposite smiled, he was leaning back in his chair casually. But there was ice in his eyes – the flash of a scowl. "_Yes_," he said. "I am certain."

The solicitor did not dare ask again. "Very well, I must admit that this is a most unusual request – but as you said, it is _your _money."

"Indeed."

"If you could call again tomorrow, I will have the relevant documentation for you."

The man stood, and placed his hat on his head. The smile he gave was polite, but there seemed to be a distant ache in his gaze. The solicitor did not know if it was dread or relief.

"You have my sincere thanks, Monsieur – I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow."

And then the man was gone, leaving the bemused solicitor to stare after him in utter disbelief.

oOo

Erik frowned, taking a deep breath. A breeze whispered past the unmasked side of his face. He was in the _Rue de Lisbonne,_ looking up at his new home. His eyes travelled up the towering façade. It was a vision of pristine white; the dull winter sun gave the place a strange aura, so that the whole building seemed to glow. The windows were large, adorned with proud shutters and balconies of intricate wrought iron. They seemed to curl and writhe before the eye, mythical serpents manifested into cold decoration.

The windows were dark and empty, but in a twist they came to life. A warm light was caressing the glass, charging them with a bright glow. On the air Erik could hear the strings of a violin, whispering a hymn of long ago – a tune that had been banished from existence. There was a voice too, a beautiful voice. It brought the music to life - gave it shape and texture. He felt warm sensations in his soul, feelings that had been too long ignored. The music, the glorious notes, that soaring voice – he wanted to close his eyes and breathe it all in…to drown in it.

The wind blew again. The voice and the music were no more. The mouth had suddenly shut, the strings had snapped. The only sound was a bark of coquettish laughter from somewhere in the street beyond.

The house was perhaps too big for a single man – _a bachelor_ – Erik thought with a sneer. But in less than two days it would be his, his own home. It was a strange sensation, which caused his chest to tighten.

His mind was simmering, the thought of the previous night was a fierce drug he could not stop taking. The tranquil nausea washed through him again and again. His feelings were dangerous. Each time he saw Christine it was becoming more and more apparent that he would not be able to let her go. He knew his enduring passion for her was the only thing that could make him a man. _Or_ the only thing that could coax out the man he already was – the man that had been hiding in the shadows. He tortured himself with the memory of the way she had looked yesterday – the smell of her hair, the warmth of her body, her eyes glowing in the strange darkness. She was a woman, alive with so much anger, pain and beauty. It was very hard to remember that innocent girl from the Opera.

He had dreamt of her last night – a dark, twisted dream in which he had awoken inside his new home to the sound of her voice. She was outside, somewhere, calling his name. The voice was far away, an echo lost in a strange mist – a mist dislocated from all time and space. He had followed the siren call blindly, down through the winding streets and through the misty boulevards. Paris was abandoned, only he and the voice remained.

He found himself in front of the Seine, looking at a boat that hovered on the black surface. It drew closer… slowly… the water carrying it with dark, slippery fingers. Inside the boat was Christine. Her white corpse was surrounded by roses – her eyes were open and hollow. The water propelled images into his mind: he saw her darling soul trying to reach Heaven, but the gates slamming before her. He could hear her calling out for the love of the angels – but they would not let her in. She had sinned, they chanted, she had wantonly given her soul to a demon – she would never be allowed in!

Then the corpse sat up, and reached out to him, crying black tears… tears of blood and dirt. And then she screamed – it was a piercing shriek that caused the black water to rise up into red, bleeding flames!

Erik had sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat-laced hair sticking to his face, his breathing coming in harsh gasps. Even hours later he had still been able to taste the dream; the memory of it left a sour tang in his mouth. He had not slept another wink.

He kept trying to tell himself that it was only a dream, _only a dream_ – but he could not force it from his mind.

"So, you are the man who I'm to call _neighbour_," said a sharp voice behind him.

Erik turned his head slightly. To the side of him stood a woman, of intermediate years, with a small beak-like nose and sharp green eyes. Her bonnet was tied tightly under her pointed chin, wisps of red hair poking out from under the brim.

Erik smiled casually. "Yes, Madame – that is a correct assumption." He held out his hand to her. "Erik Larsson."

Her small mouth curled slightly, she took his hand. "Madame Lissert. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur." She glanced up at the house. "He was a decent man, old Monsieur LeBlanc, not very sociable, but friendly enough. No strange behaviour, either; well, not until he decided to run off to America. Why on earth he wanted to leave Paris at his age is quite beyond me."

Erik smiled at her, a decision he instantly regretted – it seemed that to this woman, a smile was an invitation to carry on with her inconsequential drabble.

"I thought he might leave the place to his sister, she is the only relation he has left. He never married, you see, never had children. Too busy with his artistic friends – a bachelor to the end! I wonder, are you of that crowd too?" She arched her perfectly sculpted brow in a way that was both comical and aggressive.

"No, Madame, I am not. But I am acquainted with an old friend of his – Monsieur Lockhart."

She gave a snort. "Yes, I know Edgar. A charming man – if a little, how shall I put it… _odd_."

"I'm sure he would appreciate that summary," Erik said with a slow smile.

Madame Lissert laughed, and then glanced at him up and down, blinking slightly at the sight of his half-covered face – not knowing if she should ask.

Erik saw her staring.

"Battle scars," he said.

She moved her hand to her mouth, horrified. "Oh dear, you poor man!"

Erik said nothing. It was easier to accept the sympathy – anything to be rid of her annoying presence, anything to be left in peace.

"I never liked his wife much, _Isabella_…" Madame Lissert said suddenly, going back to their previous topic. "I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but she was very peculiar… coddled that poor boy of theirs, never let him out of her sight! Not healthy for a son, a daughter is another matter – but young boys need to roam free."

"You seem to be very well informed on the subject," Erik said neutrally.

"I am indeed, sir. I have two strapping young sons to show for it. They are both very well respected in society, and happily married. Very amiable young men, even if I do say so myself."

"You must be very proud." Erik held his crisp smile, trying hard to hide his increasing irritation.

Another woman was approaching them; Madame Lissert began to wave at her enthusiastically. Erik saw the new woman from the corner of his eye, and thought, _Damn!_ He bit down on his tongue, hard.

The two women exchanged enthusiastic pleasantries, chirping like small sparrows. Erik stood still, feeling himself go slowly numb. He was used to spending time with Edgar, he and the old man had a level of understanding – they even shared an odd sense of humour. And Christine, well – he would never be completely used to the presence of Christine. But these two middle-aged women were something else: scrutinizing eyes, tight lips, pained expressions. They seemed to be always making a judgement, forming an opinion before all of the evidence had been given. He swallowed hard; a sickly feeling seemed to rise from nowhere. He wanted to run, but knew that he couldn't. That was the most infuriating thing about this world above ground: the endless rules, the countless should-not-s.

"Oh, let me introduce you to my new neighbour," Madame Lissert said to her companion. Erik grimaced inwardly, but turned to them with a charming smile.

"Monsieur Larsson, this is my good friend, Madame Girard." Erik took the offered hand. "Madame Girard – Monsieur Larsson."

"A pleasure, Madame," Erik said.

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur!" Madame Girard beamed. The two women locked eyes for an instant; it seemed they could read each other's thoughts. Erik wanted to scowl at them for thinking him credulous enough not to notice – but he managed to restrain himself from it.

The new woman seemed older than Madame Lissert. Her features were softer, and her hair was grey, her skin was lined with memories. She had a rotund figure and was dressed in a very unflattering shade of purple.

"I trust you will look after this lovely were very fond of Monsieur LeBlanc – but I'm sure you will be a very fine replacement."

"I shall try my best. You have my word."

Both women smiled at him broadly, making him feel uneasy.

It was clear by their unusual interest in the occupation of this house, that the matter had been the cause of many conversations between the two women, probably over endless cups of tea in high society salons and at dinner parties.

"Well, we should be going. We have tickets for the matinee at the Theatre Lyrique," Madame Lissert said proudly – hoping to impress. "I hope to see you again soon, Monsieur!"

"And you too, Madame. Have a pleasant afternoon." He tipped his hat at Madame Girard. "Good day, ladies."

The two women walked away, twittering as they went. Erik could still hear them when they were several feet away.

"_Well, he seems to be a very amiable gentleman!"_

"_That's just what we need around here, young blood! I wonder what his wife is like!"_

Erik turned around to see who they could possibly be taking about – which other poor wretch had grabbed their unwanted attention! But he found that he was quite alone in the street.

A carriage pulled up beside him and the driver jumped down off the bench. He stood behind Erik for a moment, waiting to be addressed. He fidgeted nervously, not knowing if he should speak.

"I'm here, Monsieur Larsson. Two o'clock – just as we discussed."

Erik turned around sharply, making the man jump. "Ah, yes. Right on time – do you still have the address?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Very good – let's go."

Erik climbed into the carriage and sat back, clasping his hands in front of him. His two new friends waved enthusiastically at him as the carriage passed them. He winced inwardly and gave them a curt nod. He clearly needed to erect a barricade outside his new house so that these two members of the local coven would leave him in peace! It was either that, or he would never be able to leave his home again.

But he pushed all of those thoughts to the back of his mind. There were more important things to think about now. The carriage rolled through Paris as though it was being spirited by a divine force. The knot in Erik's stomach began to throb, and he felt his whole body ache. He realised that, for the first time in his life, he was a writhing mess of nerves.

oOo

The air inside the small house seemed stagnant, oppressive – and even though it was daylight the whole place seemed to be covered in a thick layer of dust. Christine walked about the house, opening the windows, breathing in the sharp air from the street. Then she would close them and continue pacing, staring at each clock she passed.

She had awoken early and shared a quiet, half-conscious breakfast with Meg. She had nodded along to Meg's stories with a slightly vague smile, unable to keep her mind focused. Under the table her feet were partaking in their own strange choreography – odd shuffles, tapping, heels and toes alternating.

"I'll be late back again tonight," Meg had said as she was preparing to leave. "Peter is taking me to dinner. I thought I'd best make use of the freedom – what with mamman being away! Will you be all right?"

"Of course," Christine had said. "Have a wonderful time!"

When Meg had left, Christine had gone straight to her room. She had tried her best to find something nice to wear, hoping that a beautiful new dress would have magically manifested itself into her wardrobe. But there had been nothing, just her usual, plain clothing. Her dresses were all very simple – pretty but plain. They were all dark too, as though she had spent her entire life in mourning – which she had, in her own way.

She had sighed and pulled out a grey dress. No black, she had thought. Not today.

She resumed her wandering, looking out of the windows casually – pretending she was not searching for any small sign of him. Even though she was the only person in the house, even though she was the only person who knew what she was feeling. It was like there was someone else inside her, somebody who knew it all.

She cleaned the dishes, made sure the house was tidy and respectable. Then she slumped onto the divan. Meg's discarded book sat next to her. She picked it up and began to examine it. She opened it at a random place and began to read – anything to stop her thinking, anything to stop the burning inside.

The book was called _The Winds of Change_– a romantic novel of the kind that made Madame Giry shake her head and frown with disapproval. Inside it there was an illustration of a girl. She was looking out to sea, at the horizon; her scarf and dress were blowing in the breeze. A ship could be seen in the distance – coming in to dock, returning from a perilous voyage.

_Or_, Christine thought cynically,_ the boat was an omen, the girl had a broken heart – she was desolate and alone…_

She began to skim through the pages; evidently the boat had been returning, after all, and the girl and her lost love were reunited. But there was danger, in the form of the dastardly Captain Le Mort, who had taken a shine to the young girl. It appeared there was nothing he would not do to thwart the devotion of the happy lovers; his depravity knew no bounds…

Christine shut the book and threw it aside.

Every time she heard a carriage she would get up and walk to the window, and then, seeing that it was not him, she would return to the divan, disappointed. Each breath made her more and more nervous; her mouth was dry, and it seemed as if all of the moisture in her body was coming out of her palms.

The clock chimed two. Christine sighed.

oOo

The carriage stopped outside the house. Erik cleared his throat and jumped out, taking deep breaths as he approached the door.

He knocked - three small thuds, then stood back, waiting. Perhaps she had gone out; she had changed her mind and wanted to avoid any confrontation. Or, she was inside, hiding in her room. She was waiting for him to give up and leave. Then she would look out of the window, only able to relax once she saw the carriage leaving the street.

The door opened, and he was greeted by her lovely face. She was smiling.

There was an urge in his bones to be distant, aloof… to keep her always at arms length – to never touch her perfect skin. He tried to ignore those urges, to greet her with a kind of warmness, familiarity…

"Good afternoon, Christine," he said.

"Hello," she replied.

She was still smiling.

"I thought we might go for a drive." He motioned towards the waiting carriage. "The Bois du Boulogne, or the Luxembourg Gardens if you would like to take a walk, whichever you prefer…"

"Yes. I'd like that," she nodded. "Wait a moment, I'll fetch my gloves."

She smiled at him again and went into the house, leaving the door open. When she appeared again she was dressed for walking, her white hands covered with dark gloves. She followed Erik to the carriage and allowed him to help her inside.

They set off, the streets rolling by. The cold winter sun made the boulevards shimmer with blue light. It was like a city beneath the sea.

"Could we go to the Bois du Boulogne?" Christine asked, her cheeks slightly pink. "There is something I would like you to see."

"Of course," Erik said. "I'm intrigued."

He told the diver where to go, and then turned to her. His brow creased. "I trust you are well, I was worried you might be feeling ill."

"I am very well, thank you. But I am glad it is not raining today!" Her words were light, playful. Erik let himself laugh a little.

The smile she gave him was breathtaking.

"Did Mademoiselle Giry have a successful performance?" he asked.

"Yes, she was very pleased. But then, Meg has always been a wonderful dancer."

Erik arched a brow; Christine could see a small frown in his eyes. "Yes, I suppose she was quite talented… How does her mother do? Edgar mentioned she has been called away. I hope it is nothing too distressing."

"Her cousin is ill, I'm not sure of the exact details – she is likely to be away for another week at the least." Christine winced - she didn't know why she had told him.

"I am sorry to hear that."

Silence began to open up around them – Christine wanted to keep the atmosphere as it was: cheerful, light and normal. She did not want the talk to turn to darker things, she did not want to try and define what they were, who they were, what they might be... They needed to grab these light-hearted moments while they could – with both hands.

She looked at him. All she could see was the unmasked side of his face, and for a moment she could pretend that there was no mask at all.

"You and Monsieur Edgar seem to be quite firm friends now. I like him very much. I don't think there is another man quite like him!"

"Indeed," Erik said with a smile. "He certainly has a very _unique_ sense of style."

Christine laughed and turned to her window, enjoying the view. Erik watched her for a few moments, and then looked away.

"There is something I have been wondering…" Christine said, a little timidly.

"Then you should ask."

She bit her lip slightly. "Your last name, _Larsson_ – how did you find it? I did not know you had one."

"Neither did I, _it_ found me."

It would have been an infuriating response, had it not been for the way he said it. He saw her perturbation, and decided it would be wise to elaborate a little.

"It is extremely inconvenient to only have one name, it makes life very difficult – so I took another one. Nothing magical, I assure you – just mere coincidence, like everything else in life."

Christine stared at him for a moment, holding him in her steady gaze. She was trying to fasten his two names together, to attach them to his skin – to make him that man, to dust off the dark cobwebs. He was not wearing black, and he had two names.

"Do you not approve?" he asked.

"Yes I approve, I think it suits you."

The carriage stopped. They were at the entrance to the Bois du Boulogne. Christine looked out of the window; they were surrounded by other carriages and small crowds. It seemed they were not the only people in Paris to take advantage of the unusually bright winter afternoon.

"Would you like to get out and walk?" Erik asked.

"Yes, I would love that."

Erik climbed out first. Christine took his hands as he helped her down the steps; her hands felt small inside his long fingers, but he held onto her with a surprising gentleness. She felt a warm flush from somewhere deep inside. He was still holding one of her hands when the driver enquired how long they would be, and Christine let it linger in his grasp for a little longer. The conversation between the two men began to take on a heated tone, however, and Christine let go of Erik's hand and began to walk towards the entrance. The sun was small in the sky, a tiny orb of cold light. It seemed to Christine like a smouldering white eye, watching them all, its musky gaze touching everything in sight. She closed her eyes for a second and felt the soft rays touch her skin. It was a weak touch, but it still sent warm ripples through her body.

The voices of Erik and the driver seemed far away, they were overlapped by more immediate ones. A mother was disciplining two small girls, wagging her slim finger in their ashamed faces; various couples laughed and shared intimate titters and whispers.

A small boy ran towards Christine and grabbed hold of her sleeve. He couldn't have been more than ten years old. His clothing, or what little there was, was worn and tattered, and he wore no shoes.

He grabbed Christine's hand and thrust a small envelope into it.

"For you, Mam'zelle!" he said.

He studied her for a few moments; his eyes were like two black pebbles. His whole face seemed to radiate an impish grin, a cynicism that went beyond his years. He seemed to be pleased by the confusion on Christine's face. His small smirk grew wider.

"I think you are mistaken…" Christine said, holding the envelope out to him. She turned around to look at Erik, but he was still talking to the driver.

The small boy looked her up and down with his dark eyes, and then shook his head.

"It is definitely for you, Mam'zelle – mark my words. I never forget orders, never been wrong. I give you my word as a gentleman!"

This boy was strange. He seemed to have the confidence of a grown man, and yet there was something desperately vulnerable about him – a child lost in the storm of the world.

Christine turned around again, feeling anxious. Her hands were shaking slightly. Erik was still not looking – their driver was still talking to him, trying rather unsuccessfully to secure some more money.

The boy followed her gaze and turned pale at the sight of Erik – the freckles seemed to drop from his face.

"Probably best not to tell your gentleman about this! Trust me. Good day to you, Mam'zelle!"

He turned around and began to run, becoming lost in the crowd.

Christine looked down at the small envelope. On the front was written:

_-__**Mademoiselle Daaé –**_

All of the blood drained from her face. It was no mistake. Someone had dispatched that boy to find her – somebody that knew her name.

She could not think of anyone who would send her a letter in such an odd way. Well, except for Erik – but it could not be from him, he was here with her now. Maybe it was from Edgar – but how would he know where she was?

She thrust it into the pocket of her dress, without opening it. Whatever it was, it could wait. She did not want to see it. A moment later Erik was at her side and she jumped slightly at the feel of him next to her.

"Who was the boy?" he asked, his sharp eyes scanning the crowds.

She considered telling him, but decided against it.

"Nobody – he was… lost, he wanted to know if I had seen his mother."

Erik's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded silently.

"Let's walk to the lake. It is lovely there…" Christine said, desperate for a change of subject.

She took his arm and they set off slowly.

"I find one thing slightly odd," Erik said. His tone caused Christine's skin to prickle.

"What?" she asked.

"That boy, he told you he was searching for his mother – but he was wearing no shoes and what looked like clothing one might find in a dustbin. How very peculiar."

Christine hid her anxiety behind a smile. "Yes, I suppose it is."

They made their way to the large gates. The fear from the note washed away – Christine knew she was safe. Even though she was sure Erik did not entirely believe her story. Her memory tricked her and threw the image of the previous night into her mind – of Erik's hands on her back, her mouth welcoming his, how alive she had felt. The cold wind soothed her burning cheeks.

Ever since, she had been waiting to feel ashamed, to be embarrassed by what they had shared. But it would not come.

They passed rows of naked, twisting trees – the bony branches quivered slightly in the soft wind. This place was made for the summer months, when the vegetation was alive and green – breathing with optimistic vibrancy. But there was something quite magical about it in winter too. It was like an old, forgotten realm – home to creatures that would sleep all day and come to life at night. The cold path and the vast lake were alive with strokes of silver paint. It was a land made from cobwebs and daydreams.

"May I ask you a question?" Erik said with a frown.

"Of course."

"I saw you once with a young man, tall – well dressed. Forgive me, but –"

"Who was he?" she said for him.

Erik nodded.

Christine gave a sour laugh. "He was my doctor."

She felt Erik flinch, but went on, "He was also a friend, as it turned out. It was his job to bring me out of the darkness, to bring me back to life. He thought he could make me remember – save me."

It was unclear from her tone whether she was laughing, or on the verge of tears.

"And," Erik asked, his voice low, "did he _cure_ you?"

Christine turned her large eyes upon him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Not all of me."

She could not read his eyes.

"My turn," she said. "What is this business you have with Edgar? Why are you so secretive about it?"

Erik said nothing for a moment; his jaw tensed and his gaze was at the floor. Christine could see his mind churning. She felt her heart sink slightly – he was not going to tell her.

"He has been helping me with the purchase of a home."

"A house?"

"Yes."

"Here, in Paris?"

"Yes."

They walked in silence for a few seconds.

"So, you'll be staying. You don't have plans to leave?" Christine asked – her eyes downcast.

"No, I have no immediate plans. There are things here that require my attention."

"I'm glad," she said quietly.

She did not elaborate, nor did he ask her to. Those two words were enough for him – his pulse throbbed with fire.

They walked past a performer playing the violin, and both stopped unconsciously to take in the music. Christine's whole aura seemed to change. Erik noticed her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle like black diamonds. The man playing was averagely talented – he managed to carry the tune quite well – but it was Christine's body that brought the music to life. She seemed terrified and enthralled, her grip on his arm tightened and her breathing seemed to stop. Erik could only watch her, mesmerised by every pore on her face. She had never looked so beautiful.

They walked on, silently, both slightly altered by that moment.

Christine noticed that the tension missing from Erik's shoulders, he seemed relaxed – content, even. There was a light in his eyes that she had never noticed before. And she found that the strangest thing about walking with him in this dim sunlight was that it was not strange at all. She did not know quite when it had happened, perhaps it had been there all along – but there was a strange and abiding bond between them, a pull towards an unspoken promise. She knew this man, she felt alive and safe with him. She could not pinpoint the exact moment that it had occurred; perhaps it had been burned into her soul from the first moment their eyes had met.

Eventually they reached the bench that Christine loved so much. The place with the strange inscription etched into the surface. She had been so desperate to show Erik this place; it reminded her of him – strange, magical and lonely.

They sat down, and spoke for a while. Christine told him a little bit about her father and about her life with Meg and Madame Giry, and Erik regaled her with stories about some of the strange things he had seen in the world. To his surprise, Christine laughed, as though she was genuinely amused by him.

Erik listened as she spoke, memorising each movement of her face. The rest of the world was only alive when he saw it reflected in the depths of her eyes. He felt like he was breathing for the first time, waking up to his very first dawn.

Before long it started to get dark, so they stood and made their way back to the carriage – two silent figures walking along the cold moonlit path. Their driver was still waiting, hunched over on his bench – dozing. Erik awoke him with an impatient cough. The man sat up with a start, and then jumped down to open the door to his passengers.

"Where can I take you, Monsieur? Your apartment in the _Rue de Bellevue?"_

Erik frowned. "No, we need to see Mademoiselle Daaé home."

The driver flinched with embarrassment. "Of course, Monsieur – forgive me!"

Erik helped Christine inside and then climbed in after her. Within a few moments the carriage set off, surrounded by the fresh aroma of early evening.

Perhaps it was the enormity of the day, or the fact that she had not been able to sleep the previous night – but Christine could not keep her eyes open. Within a few moments she was falling asleep, resting lightly against Erik.

He sa tvery still, staring out of the window at the sapphire glow of twilight, relishing the warm sensation of her body.

Christine was dancing, swirling in an azure mist – her feet were working against the tick of the clock, carrying her into the past. She could smell the Opera. The smells nobody else would remember; the musky dormitories, awash with faded perfume and dried tears. She could feel the chill of the chapel, the lingering caress of the sacred air; she could hear the lost prayers – words carried into an eternity beyond all others. And then, later, there had been the voice and the lake, the clash of fantasy and reality – it was all peaceful now, all forgotten…

"Christine."

She jolted awake, momentarily wondering why the carriage was floating on the misty water…

"We're here."

She was with the same man, but they were not floating on the dark water of dreams and music. They were in a carriage, in the street, solid ground beneath them, fresh air and other people were only a heartbeat away.

"Forgive me – I fell asleep," Christine said, sitting up straight.

"Do not apologise," Erik smiled slightly – but she could not place his tone.

They climbed out of the carriage, moving mechanically, as though their joints were laced with rust. The whole day had felt like a trance, it only became real now – now that it was over. It was an infuriating, bittersweet sensation that made them both feel an unexpected pang of melancholy.

Erik walked Christine to the door. It was dark inside – Meg was not at home yet. Christine took out her key, and then she turned to face him.

"Will I see you again?" she asked.

"That is your decision," Erik replied with a half-smile that died on his face almost instantly. There seemed to be an ache in his eyes, in the dark it looked as though they were bleeding.

"Then I will," she said – her voice was strong. She surprised him even more by rising onto her tiptoes and pressing her lips to the unmasked side of his face. Erik held her for a moment, and then they parted.

"I will send you word tomorrow." He said.

Christine smiled again. "I would like that. Good night, Erik."

She opened the door and went inside. Erik lingered by the house for a few moments, until he was satisfied that she was safe, then he returned to the waiting carriage.

oOo

Christine closed the door and stood in the hallway for a moment, adjusting to the new warmth inside her body. Then she went through to the sitting room and slumped down onto the divan. Her mind was swirling, she did not recognise the things she was thinking and feeling. She did not know if it had all been real, she felt like the entire day had been an illusion, a strange memory sewn from invisible string.

The deepest parts of her felt alive, she felt light and heavy, unable to move but also twitching with anticipation. She could not label what she was beginning to feel – she did not want to.

She took off her gloves and ran her palms over her dress.

Then she felt it.

She took out the crumpled note and opened it with cold, shaking fingers.

The words were small, written with thick black ink.

* * *

_**Mademoiselle Daaé,**_

_**One **__**eye over the shoulder is better than two in the grave.**_

_**Watch out**__**.**_

_**Affectionately,**_

_**An Admirer**_

_**

* * *

**_

Christine read it again, and then again. Her skin was burning, sweat crawled across her neck like the cold touch of a spider. The words leapt out at her, one by one, black and acidic. The house was dark, silent.

She jumped as the clock chimed the hour of eight.

Meg would not be home for hours – if whoever had sent this note knew she was in the park, they might also know that she was at home now. Alone.

She stood and ran to the door, fumbling as she opened it and locked it behind her. The street seemed a very different place to the one she had left only a few moments earlier. The faces were large and distorted, whirling past her in a dance of ugly laughter. They were all watching, waiting – ready to drag her away into the night.

_An eye over the shoulder … The grave__…_

She could not breathe. The fear she felt was irrational and sharp; it bit at her lungs and numbed her heart. The wild throbbing in her temples made her feel dizzy.

"Are you all right, Mademoiselle?" a well-dressed couple enquired as they passed her.

Christine could not answer; she tumbled away from them, her eyes screaming with white light. She hailed the first hansom cab she saw. When she was inside the driver turned to find out her destination. She felt void of breath but managed to choke out,"…The _Rue de Bellevue,_ please…"

She sat back, holding her arms around herself; her entire body was trembling.

oOo


	24. A House of Cards

_I can't go back to yesterday… I was a different person then_

- Lewis Carroll.

oOo

_**A House of Cards**_

oOo

Erik crushed the letter in his fist. He held it tightly, squeezing so hard that the paper seemed to bleed. Every sinew in him was coiled, tense – a silent wolf made from barbed wire.

"Erik, say something – please."

He heard her voice, a small beam of light in a dark tunnel. He tried desperately to calm the building rage that gripped him, but it was futile. Every thought ended with the faces of a thousand serpents, each one with eyes of fire – every avenue of reason he tried to follow ended with bitter, black flames.

He heard Christine's intake of breath, and what seemed like a shudder. She would surely shudder in disgust if she knew what he was, what he had done! He needed to find the man she knew, the man she had spent the day with – the man she had come here to find. She did not want the grieving, corpse-like creature with half a face; she wanted the respectable man with a level head who would protect her. Protect her like a man – not a jealousy-crazed monster. His head throbbed; he was trying so hard to resist, struggling to remember the daylight and Christine's bare hands holding his. But it was useless, it was easier to let go, to let the tide drag him down, down, down into a pit of blood and ash. Darkness held out a gloved hand, and he felt himself reach out to caress her fingertips.

The letter was still in his grasp. He tightened his fist again and the crunch sent a strange echo around the silent room. He saw the words painted in blood on the wall in front of him – _an eye over the shoulder… two in the grave… the grave._

_Christine in a grave…_

How foolish he had been, to believe he could put it all behind him. To believe it was possible to begin again. How stupid of him to allow himself a day with Christine, a day in the light – how unbelievably foolish!

He took one last, deep breath, keeping his mind focused on the sunlight reflected in Christine's eyes. He forced the ghost out of his soul and turned, blinking, to face the light.

oOo

Christine stood near the doorway, biting at her fingers. Erik's actions made her insides flinch; sour nerves festered in the pit of her stomach. She moved her hands to her sides and clenched her clammy palms together, trying in vain to calm herself. Erik was not moving. The orange glow from the fire played over his face, stripes of gold revealing his tense brow and bitter frown.

It had been several minutes since she had burst into the apartment, without knocking, wide-eyed and terrified. The force with which she had barged through the door had nearly made her fall down. Erik, who had been standing in front of the fire, had whipped around at the noise, ready to pounce, but the dark sneer in his eyes had disappeared the moment he saw her. His stance had momentarily softened, but then his eyes had darkened again – his entire visage had radiated a black scowl.

He had not seemed pleased to see her.

Christine had watched his face change as she blurted out her strange confession, her words nonsensical and rushed – holding out the letter to him with her shaking hand. He had snatched the paper from her, reading it carefully with burning eyes, then he had crushed it in his fist, taking low, shuddering breaths. His jaw had set tight, the corner of his mouth curling up into a snarl.

Now he stood silently, lost in the blaze – his thoughts smouldering with the ashes.

Christine found that she could not focus on what was happening, her mind would not let her assimilate this reality. Instead, she noticed odd things, things she could not quite make sense of. A memory surfaced of the last time she had been inside this apartment – a night of memory and denial. There had been furniture, the walls had been lined with paper, the floor covered with bottles and letters… Now there was nothing. The walls were bare, the furniture coved by white sheets. Only a bed remained. The wardrobe was open with two suits hanging up. Beside the bed was a half-packed suitcase, as though Erik had been living out of it – ready to leave at any moment.

She felt a strange presence behind her, something that had been lingering since her flight from the house. She could feel cold eyes on her back, a shadow that hovered just beyond her vision. She did not know who or what it was, perhaps it was only her own fear. But the icy fingers were there all the time, waiting for the right moment to grab her neck.

Erik strode across the room. He threw one of the white sheets off a chair, and the old piece of furntiure screeched in protest as he dragged it close to the fire. The noise pulled Christine out of herself and she fixed her eyes on him; his actions were swift and precise – almost reptilian.

"Come away from the door, Christine. It is cold."

Christine obeyed, drifting towards the fire like a moth. She sat down and felt the flames eat at her cold cheeks; the ice melted away and was replaced by a hot sting.

Erik continued to move about the apartment behind where she sat. His meticulous conduct somehow soothed her – it gave her mind focus. When she turned her head she saw that he was dressed in dark clothes and a black cloak – like the man who showed himself to her through a mirror. He came closer and knelt before her, taking one of her hands and holding it in both of his tightly – the leather of the gloves cooled his touch.

"Tell me, did you notice anything unusual on your way here? Could you have been followed?"

His eyes were wide with concern and the glow of the fire made them unusually bright. Christine was drawn in, staring into the strange reflections of ochre and twisting amber. She shook her head slightly. "No, at least – I don't think so. I was too scared to look behind me…" She heard how foolish that sounded, and cursed inwardly.

Erik let go of her hand, then stood up abruptly. "Wait here a moment."

Christine felt a draught at her neck as Erik opened the door; it chilled the room for a few moments and then disappeared. The lock clicked, sealing her inside. The building radiated silence. Had she not known of Erik's presence she would have been convinced that she was here alone.

A rattling sound reverberated through the floorboards, as though a thousand small hands were tickling the ceiling beneath. Christine jumped up, feeling as though whatever it was would claw through and grab her ankles. It would tear away the wood and clasp its obscene talons around her, paralysing her with a cold, decaying touch. A moment later it happened again, at the far end of the room – a deep murmuring that slithered beneath the floor.

Erik, she thought, breathing in and out slowly, trying to force all other thoughts away – it was only Erik. They were alone here, she was safe. It was only her silly, wild imagination. There were no angels, no singing walls and no ghosts… none of that was real. She climbed back into the chair and pulled her knees up to her chest. She looked at the fire, swallowing hard.

A memory surged forward from the depths of the hearth. It hovered before her, finding life in the crack and hiss of the flames. The blaze seemed to feed it, to fill its lungs with impregnable melancholy. Christine could see the figures clearly, painted in daylight, talking and breathing inside the smoke. She did not know why this recollection should spring forth now, why her conscience teased her with accusations she could not refute. She tried to force it back, to banish it into the realm of ash and soot – but it would not fade…

More strongly now it made itself known, refusing to be exiled. The fire was no longer there; instead the scene set itself against the wall. A small bedroom, swaying curtains glowing yellow with the sun, voices coming from the street beyond: a single bark of laughter, the squeals of playing children, the tittering of anonymous gossip…

And inside the room… silence and regret… bitter, aching sadness…

_Raoul sat at the edge of the small bed, his handsome face creased. He had been stroking her hair while she slept, but when he saw her waking he moved it away quickly – lest she should see._

_She smiled at him slightly, and saw him wince. There was a hard knot __in__ her throat that plunged down __to__ her stomach. She knew that her actions had hurt him, that a polite smile from her mouth somehow made a mockery of him – of them. But there was nothing else she could do._

_Raoul took a deep breath, __preparing__ to speak._

"_You should try to get up, it is a beautiful day." His voice was strained; the forced politeness was killing him._

_Christine had not seen him in a while. She had started to think he had forgotten her. She was not stupid; she knew he had moved on with his life – that she had been the one to force him to. She knew that whether he wanted to admit it or not, everything had to change._

_She had told him__,__ a few months __prior,__ that he should stop these visits. That he could not sit at her bedside and try to soothe her grey soul. She had told him that she did not want him to come again._

_She had lied to him, for his own good._

_But now he was here again, being nothing but his polite, charming self. Christine wanted him to scream at her, to tell her he hated her, to confirm to her the worst things she thought about herself. But he would not; he remained kind and sincere – which only served to __cut__ her heart __deeper__._

"_No, I cannot… not today__,__" she said, aware of how odd she sounded. But there was truth in it, she did not know how to pick herself up._

"_It has been months, Christine. I thought that if I left you for a while you would climb out of this gloom – but it seems to have taken a __stronger__ hold on you."_

_Christine sat up in bed slightly, unable to meet his wounded eyes, unable to face the truth in his words._

"_I went out yesterday__. I__t did not help."_

"_It was raining yesterday. You should try again today – I'll come with you, we can take my carriage to the Luxemburg Gardens. You need fresh air and sunlight… it will help."_

"_It won't__,__" Christine said. "Please, say no more of it."_

_She wanted both to scream and to cry. She was repulsed by what she had become, __by__ the pit she was sinking into. And here was her dear, beloved friend, holding out his hand – and she was too afraid to take it._

"_It is my wedding day tomorrow," Raoul said__,__ unable to avoid the subject any longer. His words fell, grave and heavy. "I should not even be here – but I needed to see you. I did write, to tell you of the engagement, but you did not reply…"_

"_I'm sorry, I meant to – but I didn't…" the words seem to die in her mouth __.She made an effort to smile. __"Please, tell me about her."_

"_Her name is Annabelle; we have known each other for many years. Our fathers are very closely acquainted… she is a very sweet girl, Christine – you would like her –"_

_He put his face in his hands and took a deep breath__,__ then ran his hands through his hair._

"_We are due to sail to America in six months, my father has several businesses over there that he wishes me to oversee ... I do not know if we will ever return."_

_Christine sat silently, her large eyes looking up at the ceiling. She was made from wax, cold and unmoving. A single tear rolled down her cheek._

"_My parents have been very __taken__ with the idea these last few months; it seems that no amount of stalling or indifference on my part could have stopped them. They remind me daily that you are gone, that you have never been mine. And__,__ against my better judgement__,__ I find myself inclined to agree with them."_

_Christine was still silent – Raoul felt his calm slipping._

"_You gave me no hope, no sign, no clue as to what you were thinking. I do not know if you even feel anything for me. We have been doing this for too long, sitting here like indifferent strangers. It kills me to see you like this, I cannot stand it. You say you cannot remember your past but you cry whenever I ask about the Opera or about that night – or about… about him. I am lost, Christine. I do not know what else I can do – I cannot find you."_

_Christine sat up slightly in her bed, fussing with the covers._

"_You must let me congratulate you," she said__.__ "Believe me, Raoul__, o__f all the people I have known, you are the one that I would most like to see happy."_

_She smiled at him again, and this time she saw the last embers of hope die in his eyes. There were only ashes now, sad, cold ashes._

"_But what of you?" he asked, his eyes pricking slightly. "I thought I would have the rest of my life to make sure you were safe. And now I only have a few minutes."_

_She looked at him; her eyes were large and bright. In a small flash she saw a life that could have been hers, a life so much of her still wanted. A strange part of her soul could smell the crisp linens, the varnished wood of their furniture; she could taste the exquisite meals they would enjoy every evening, feel the cool air as they rode their horses through glorious fields. Light and love – pure love…_

_It was as if it was all there waiting for her, on a different platform – another lifetime…_

_Raoul leaned forward and took her hand; he held her cold fingers for the last time. The same fingers that only a year before he had cherished, upon which he had bestowed a ring of diamonds – a promise of forever._

"_I will be fine__,__" __s__he said, looking straight ahead – not at the wall but somewhere else, somewhere only she could see. "I am safer now than I was then__."_

_She looked at him again, her eyes shining like a melting winter frost. "I do love you, Raoul. But I am not the person you need me to be."_

_He smiled slightly, a smile of complete sadness – beyond tears. He kissed her hand and then placed it gently on the bed._

_And then he was gone._

_She heard the stairs creaking, morbidly announcing his departure. It was a sad tune, dark and futile. A small part of her soul climbed out of the bed and ran after him, to beg his forgiveness – to cling to his goodness and hope that a lifetime in his light would save her. To hope that his kindness would block out whatever torments made her soul ache and bleed._

_But she could not – it was not enough. Whoever she was, whatever she was becoming, sunlight and smiles were not enough. And she knew deep down that they never had been…_

Christine came back to herself. The fire and the memories made her face burn.

Would it be cruel of her to write to him now? Would it be selfish to tell him that the girl he had left behind, a girl drowning in cobwebs, was now free to remember the past? That she had picked herself up and moved on – just as he had done. Perhaps it would be kinder to let him remember her as she was, to let him remember her only as a ghost. It was easier to think fondly of things that had ceased to live.

She did not understand her own words; _I am safer now than I was then_… safer from what? From Erik? Or safer from herself?

There was a bang behind her and she jumped up, blood throbbing in her ears.

oOo

Erik glided soundlessly down the first set of stairs. He moved like an echo, a lingering, invisible force. A search of the top floor had revealed nothing, only cobwebs and layers of thick, itching dust. It was amazing how quickly his body remembered this, how easy it was to pull the shroud back over his face. His pupils became a primal shade of black, narrow pools able to analyse every pore of the dark.

He swooped into one of the corners opposite the staircase and took a moment to listen, allowing his breathing to replicate a draught in a quiet hallway. Silence had its own noises, its own rhythm – sounds that were purer, deeper than any that could be made by a living soul. They were thinner than water, sharper than fire – they needed to be respected. Erik turned his senses outwards, dissolving the thoughts inside his head. He heard the silence, the pure, rising crescendo.

There was nothing here, only stillness.

Deftly, he made his way down the second flight of stairs. He knew this rickety hovel well; he knew the creaking sounds and the habits of the rodent-like neighbours who could be heard through the walls. Since his first evening he had been making an inventory of every dark nook, every corner and cubby-hole, he knew by heart the pressure of each floorboard and the height of every stair.

There were two rooms on this floor, rooms that had perhaps once been used as a dwelling. There were odd pieces of furniture scattered about, no doubt abandoned by the previous owner: a stool with a missing leg, a headless doll, a bureau with scrawled engravings and strange paintings with cracked, flaking paint. They were the relics of another person's life, things that were too ugly to be needed, that could be left behind and easily forgotten. Was this the reason Henry had installed him here? Did the old man think that he belonged in this damp graveyard where unwanted memories decayed forgotten by everyone? He snarled. Perhaps he should burn the place to the ground and be done with it! Then he could take Christine and run away – far away, to a place where nobody else could harm her.

A deep, trembling pressure rippled down into his stomach. He had known this would happen. He had known all along. It was an unavoidable, inconvenient truth. Exactly _how_ the old man would take his revenge, Erik had never quite been able to predict. Sometimes he imagined that Henry's henchmen would come and try to kill him, always silently, always in the dark. He had occasionally, and quite foolishly, believed that he could write to Henry, to beseech him to forget his hatred and live out the rest of his days in peace. And, perhaps most foolishly of all, he had tried to convince himself that another enemy had got to Henry first, that the old man was dead. That nothing would happen, nothing at all...

He had ignored the ticking inside his mind, and now the hour was upon him.

He had not expected the weapon of choice to be a letter! _A letter_, he thought sardonically – it was almost laughable! But it was not just a note, the paper and the words on it were of little consequence. It was who the letter had been sent to. That was the real threat – the poison on the arrow-point.

He blamed the daylight, the damned happiness that had been feeding him abundantly. It had slowly eroded away his senses, starved his basic instincts. It had made fat parts of him he never knew existed. Never before would he have let such a situation occur, he would have faced Henry, forced a confrontation himself! And if that had meant the death of an old man – so be it. He had become a coward. .No, it was worse than that – he had been displaying the behaviour of an ordinary man. Wanting to bury his head in his own happiness and live inside it, he wanted his own private world, a home of his own – a home where only Christine and music existed.

Oh, Christine. He was trying desperately to forget the colour of her terrified eyes, the swelling of her lips from where she had bitten them raw, the helplessness and fear that seemed to resonate through her core. She had looked just the same two years ago, when a demon had held her lover by the neck and refused to let him go. He felt a hot, terrible anger sweep through him. This time it was not his choice when the show ended, this was somebody else's music. Erik knew now how the boy had felt that night, he understood. But he would not allow the noose to crush him; he was not a young pup attempting an impossible rescue. He would not charge in; blind rage and a lust for blood would not help – he needed to be patient. He needed to wait.

He was at the ground floor, inside the front rooms that had at one time been a bar or a café. They radiated deep, deafening silence. The air felt different in here, there was too much dust, and it hovered and danced with sprightly melancholy…

Something had disturbed it.

Erik stood back against a wall, watching, studying the shape and texture of every shadow. There was a scent among the layers of exited dust. He breathed it in; it was not the familiar aroma of Christine – he sensed traces of earth and stale smoke. Moments went by, long, strained moments. Nothing changed. Nothing moved. Whoever had been here had gone, probably while he had been upstairs with Christine.

She had been followed here – of that there was no question.

Then he saw it, a small piece of paper propped up by the front door. He picked it up and studied it. The handwriting was the same untamed scrawl that had been on the letter to Christine. A cool white glow from the outside lamps touched the murky windows, providing just enough light by which to read.

Erik opened the letter, his eyes smouldering dangerously.

oOo

_Erik_, Christine breathed with relief, it was only Erik. The thump had simply been him returning to the apartment. She sank back down onto the chair as though she was being lowered by a string.

He looked at her; there was no anger in his eyes, but he did not return her smile. His entire countenance seemed to have changed. His shoulders were hunched and his neck looked stiff, and from the distance his eyes seemed very dark. Christine opened her mouth to speak, and then snapped it closed again. She watched as he threw off his cloak and it hit the floor like a ripple upon a black lake.

Erik came close to the fire again, arms folded, breathing with a slight sneer. The gentle warmth that had enveloped him before had disappeared. When he spoke his voice was low and strangely calm.

"I have searched the entire building, there is nobody else here. You were not followed."

"Are you sure?"

"I am quite certain."

Christine remembered the words on the note and the strange drumming on the floorboards. The words were written in blood in her mind. They dripped, dark red blotches slowly drowning her soul. She felt a fresh flash of fear.

"You are _very_ certain?" she asked again.

"I can perform a second search if you wish –"

"No!" she said, almost jumping up from her seat. "No, please do not leave me again."

Erik gave a nod; his eyes studied her face carefully. Christine did not know why he seemed so tense. He almost seemed annoyed with her, as if this was somehow all her fault.

"You say the urchin gave the letter to you."

"Yes."

He went silent again, staring into the fire. After a while he unfolded the crumpled letter and re-read it. Christine watched him quietly, lacing her fingers together.

"Have you seen him anywhere before?"

"I – I don't think so…"

Erik's mouth twisted. "You must think _very_ carefully. It might have been a small, inconsequential meeting – but it could be of the utmost importance."

"I have never seen him before, I'm sure of it."

"Tell me exactly what he said to you – word for word."

Christine felt a small lump forming in her throat. She was terrified of what the letter meant, of whoever had sent it, of the fact her life was out of her control… _again._ Erik's abruptness made her even more scared. She did not know how she had expected him to be, what she had wanted him to say – what she had hoped he would do. There was a strange yearning inside her for him to take her by the hand, to tell her that it was all fine, that nothing was going to happen.

She should have known he would be like this. She should have remembered…

Suddenly there was warmth on her back and neck, warmth that sent comforting contentment through her. Christine realised that there was a blanket around her. Erik had just put it there – his hands lingered briefly on her shoulders. The contact sent a flush of heat through her, rippling up to the surface of her skin.

He was by the fire again in an instant, as though he had not moved. His face was impassive, almost cold. Christine could not help but wonder why his actions said one thing while his expression said another – and why it should bother her so much.

She shook herself inwardly and tried to remember what the little urchin had said to her, but the memory seemed to dissolve every time she tried to touch it. All that remained were fragmented words and images, the grubby cheeks of a child, her name written in poison – the ugly leer on a youthful brow.

She started speaking, hoping her words would find the memory for her, "He gave me the letter, and when I tried to give it back he said that it was definitely for me – that he never forgets his orders. He saw you, too – he said that I ought not to tell you. That it would be a good idea to keep it to myself. Someone sent him –" her voice faltered, "– someone sent him to find me."

Erik made a strange noise, akin to a growl; he began to pace back and forth. "If only you had shown me then! Perhaps something could have been done… those beggars are loyal only to the highest bidder! By now the little scoundrel will be back in the sewer. There are thousands like him, infesting every putrid corner of this city!"

It was only then that Christine noticed; when she saw the fury and the fire light up his face – his _whole_ face. Erik was not wearing his mask. And she could not say for certain whether he had been wearing it when she had arrived. The firelight seemed to crawl into the smallest crevices of his deformity, the places she had never seen before. It showed the deep, private parts that had never felt the caress of a human gaze. Christine braced herself, waiting to feel fear or even pity – but nothing came.

She averted her gaze, as not to stare. She wiped the tears that had unexpectedly sprung into her eyes and took a deep breath, resolving to be strong.

"I am sorry I did not show you right away, but I had no reason to think that a letter addressed to me would contain such things!"

The sneering lines disappeared from Erik's face, and he almost looked sad.

"I am sorry I dragged you into this, Erik – I had no right to involve you. Especially after everything that happened –"

"Do not be absurd, Christine! I would have been insulted if you had gone to anyone else…" Then he made a sound like a deep, mocking laugh. "After all, what other uses can a former ghost have?"

Despite everything, Christine felt herself laugh a little too. In that moment it all seemed so ridiculous. She laughed because of how far removed her life, and Erik's, were from the real world. The things that happened to them would not happen to anyone else. He was right, if she couldn't turn to him – who could she turn to?

The tension in Erik's shoulders began to melt slightly. He pulled another chair to the fire and sat down, not too close. He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"What time will Mademoiselle Giry return home tonight?"

"Meg?" Christine said, surprised. "She is out with Peter; she will not be back for a few hours yet, at least."

"You must be there when she returns."

"I don't want to be in that house alone, Erik."

"You won't be," he said calmly. "I would never suggest such a thing. You will remain here for a few hours, and then I will escort you home."

"Thank you," she said with a small smile.

"I will watch over the house while you sleep."

"And then?" Christine asked, feeling the melancholy descend on her once more.

Erik gave her a cold, nerve-stinging smile and steepled his fingers together. "_Then_… you will leave everything to me."

oOo

* * *

AN: Sorry again for the delays with this story, I hope to update again before Christmas. Please let me know what you thought of the chapter!

And as always, big thanks to my Beta!


	25. Hide Your Soul

AN: I'm back to working on this story again after (another) unexpected hiatus! I really hope there is still some interest in this and would love to hear from anyone who is still reading!

* * *

_Give thy thoughts no tongue. _

- William Shakespeare

oOo

**_Hide Your Soul_**

oOo

Trembling. The whole street was trembling, cold with silence, pale in the face of the moon. The night had no pity for the cowering souls, no mercy for the shivering corners and alleys made dark by its black, slithering fingertips. They crept into every crevice, filling them completely – triumphant and silent. The bewitching fingers crawled across the flesh of every passer-by, scratching at the skin with whispers, conjuring paranoia and backward glances.

Two hooded figures slid deftly through the alleyways and dark streets of the black Paris night. They drifted with the mist, glided with the smoke, and merged with the long, twisting shadows. The journey was silent. Christine shivered and Erik burned. Neither spoke of what lay in the recesses of their souls, of the dark torments that seemed to take the body in waves.

Erik felt deep warmth creep over him as Christine held onto him tightly, clutching first his arm, then his hand. Her grip was light and urgent – enduring. She had never held on to him in this way before, she had never sought such comfort from him. Erik allowed himself to feel it, just for that moment, to relish in the shivers that convulsed through his arm. Yet, almost at once, his joy was flooded by shame – she was scared for her life, and he was the cause of it.

They arrived outside the small house and stood side by side. It seemed far away, somehow dislocated, a forgotten nightmare suddenly reborn. The whole place was silent and empty, radiating innocent domesticity – all neatly-drawn curtains and pretty window-boxes.

Christine could not breathe. She tried to imagine the house by daylight, bright, with a familiar face smiling in the window and sunlight bouncing off the glass and clashing in the air in a dance of bright glitter.

Tonight, blood seemed to be all around it, and the flowers had dropped their plotting heads together.

"It is strange to be afraid of your own home," she said.

Erik continued to stare at the house. "I will search it… and I will remain outside all night."

"You don't have to –"

"You know I do."

The wind rattled past them, laughing as it went – taunting and shrill. Christine swallowed; she did not know which held more terror in this moment, the open street or that soundless house. She reached out, but Erik was standing too far away, so her hand fell limply at her side.

"Is there any point tomorrow that you might find yourself alone?" Erik asked.

"No, the outing has been arranged for quite some time. I will spend the entire day with Meg and Peter; we are going to an art exhibition, then afternoon tea – and in the evening we are to have dinner…" Her face whitened. "I'm not sure I can face it."

"You must," Erik's voice was deep and calm. "Nothing will happen to you, I assure you. But it is important not to be alone at any time. There are some urgent things I must attend to in the morning, but I will remain close. You may not be able to see me, but I will be able to see you."

Christine turned to him with a strange half-smile. "It feels odd to be grateful for such a promise – but I am."

Erik inclined his head slightly, his jaw set tight. Christine wished they could forget everything that had gone before, and start anew. She wished that spoken words, smiles, and the lightest of caresses did not result in a surging of anger and guilt. But she knew neither of them could ever completely let go of that time – it was too deeply embedded, it could not be undone. She did not know if the deep, terrible pain inside Erik would ever completely fade – whether she would ever be able to reach beyond his skin.

She took a step towards him and lay her gloved hand on his sleeve. Erik fixed his eyes on her. He did not touch her; instead his eyes took in every pore on her face.

Christine tried to read his expression, but a thick shadow veiled his visible side. All she could see was the mask.

"This will all be over very soon, I promise," he said.

They went inside the house.

oOo

**_The body of a young woman was discovered in the early hours of Monday morning on the banks of the River Seine. Unconfirmed reports suggest that the woman was found with a rope around her neck. Police have been reluctant to provide any details that may hinder their investigation._**

**_Although the identity of the young woman has not been confirmed, many believe it to be Mlle Christine Daaé, former soprano at the Paris Opera, who disappeared in unusual circumstances on the 2_****_nd _****_of December._**

oOo

Erik returned the letter to his pocket and continued to stare at the house. Watery shimmers of daylight were visible on the horizon. He had forced the dawn by devouring the darkness with his eyes, gorging on the night until there was nothing left for the sun to do but rise. He could feel it stirring in his bones – the delirious coldness of black fire.

The streets would soon be waking; curtains would open and let daylight flood the rooms with warmth. Slowly, people began to leave their houses, off to start their days in offices around the city. Some people cast curious glances at the silent man dressed in black, distant and unmoving. But Erik did not look at them; he sat staring only at the house.

He saw her small, white face in the window, isolated, as though she had been plucked from a dream. She was too far away to see her features clearly, but Erik knew every curve, he traced each shape with his eyes. He thought he saw her put her hand against the glass, but a moment later she was gone and he wasn't sure if he had not imagined her.

He remembered the game of chess he had played with Henry on that cold night in London. The old man had made the first move; he played with a confident, merciless manner – taking Erik's pieces ruthlessly. At the time Erik had half-expected to see Henry rub his hands together with unashamed glee, so sure that victory was in his grasp. He remembered the excitement in those dull grey eyes, the secret swelling of triumph. Erik had been able to read the old man's every move by the expression on his wrinkled brow. He remembered Henry's surprise, his utter disbelief, when Erik had set down his final piece and won. Henry had been speechless in the face of his quiet victory…

He saw the boy, Peter, walking to the house. It must have been approaching nine. Erik stood up and walked away, coldness following him, dragging across the floor with every step he took.

oOo

Christine's neck flinched with pain as she glanced back; she rubbed it and continued to look forward, mindful not to loose sight of Meg and Peter. The two of them seemed to move in a world of their own, laughing and smiling as they went. Christine was trying desperately to keep up with them, but the oncoming crowds were becoming thick: the people jostled and bustled together, stopped to talk and laugh in the middle of the path, flocked in every direction and sometimes came to a dead halt without reason. She felt invisible and abandoned – half of her wanted to recoil into the wall and disappear, and the other part wanted to fight through with steely determination. She tried to keep her eyes on the feather that sat atop Meg's hat – she needed to stay close to them, she could not risk being separated.

In her haste she crashed into two well-dressed women travelling in the opposite direction. They stopped and threw stony stares of displeasure at her. Christine heard the muttered words "…insolent rudeness…" and "…ill mannered!" She tried to apologise, but was answered only with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Christine felt helpless, frozen to the spot by their stony disapproval – and then, when their censure would still not relent, she fought off her mortification with a helpless smile. Such pride could not be beaten, she knew – there was nothing else she could do.

She turned away from their scowls and back to the throng of the boulevard – Meg and Peter had not seen the incident and had carried on into the swarm. Christine ran slightly, dodging arms, umbrellas and walking canes, weaving between bodies and large bonnets – trying to catch up with them. When she finally did, she slowed down, red-cheeked, and tried to walk with decorum.

She noticed the way Meg held onto Peter, so at ease, so content. To her the boulevard was probably empty; nobody barged into her or gave her cold looks. She almost seemed to be flying. Christine remembered the day she had walked with Erik through the bustling streets. They had not floated nor had they been gleaming with contentment – all she could remember was the scratching of fallen leaves against the cold ground and the sickening in her heart.

She was trying to keep her mind clear and focused, to banish the awful note to the back of her mind – just as Erik had told her to. Fear would only do her harm, make her more vulnerable. But it was very difficult not to peer at the faces of all these passing strangers, not to imagine their dark brows and twitching eyes were looking at her – watching her. It seemed impossible not to look at all of them and wonder if they were the serpent with a poisoned pen.

"Come on, Christine – keep up!" Meg called over her shoulder. "We don't want to loose you in this awful crowd!"

Christine smiled and quickened her step, then threw another nervous glance behind her.

Erik had told her to say nothing of the note to Meg and Peter, and she agreed; it was pointless to worry them. It would all be over very soon, Erik kept telling her… it would all be over very soon. Looking back, Christine could not help but find it strange that she had run straight to Erik. To a man she had once feared, a man she had fled from so many times before. How had it happened? How did he change from being the cause of her fear, to the man she sought to help her? Was it a change in him – or in her? In many ways she felt closer to him than ever before. She could tell him anything, she knew, and he would not judge her. She needed him and he wanted to be there for her. And yet there was also a distance, a hollow, terrible distance. They were _only_ close again because she needed him – Christine was annoyed that it should even matter.

Meg and Peter were waiting patiently for her outside the art gallery. Their smiling faces soothed her and she felt herself breathe without fear.

"I thought we had lost you for a moment," said Peter. "It's my fault, I've been exciting Meg with talk of honeymoons –"

"Greece," Meg cut in, "can you believe it, Christine? Three months touring Greece. I'm so excited!"

"Nothing has been finalised just yet," Peter said, laughing nervously.

"Oh, well then, we should finalise it as soon as possible. I don't think I want to go anywhere else."

"But there are lots of wonderful places...We should talk about it more before we make any definite plans. Italy has always interested me – or perhaps Spain…"

Meg looked thoughtful for a moment. "No… none of those excite me as much as Greece."

"I'm sure whatever you decide, and wherever you go, it will be wonderful," said Christine, coming to Peter's rescue. She motioned to the doors of the gallery. "Shall we?"

"Of course, we do look rather foolish talking like this in the street," said Peter.

They went through the doors and into the grand foyer. The smell of polished brass and marble made Christine think of the Opera, an aria found its way into her mind and she was tempted to hum it, to bring the notes to life and release them. She could hear the whispered anticipation of the impatient crowd and the nervous chattering of exited chorus girls, and a surge of delight overtook her; she missed that life, those feelings. A time when even the darkest tragedy hid behind a veneer of glitter… she had been telling herself for all these years that she did not want to go back, that the door was closed on that time. That it had all been laid to rest in a coffin of gold and velvet. But how wonderful it would be to go back, to be that girl again…

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," said a man trying to walk by.

"Oh," Christine smiled in apology. She was momentarily perturbed, she felt yanked from a dream, spun out of herself. She studied the man; he was well dressed, with a kind face and warm eyes. Christine's skin prickled with heat and fear. It could be him, he could drag her into the crowd and that would be it. Erik was wrong, it had been foolish to go ahead with this outing – it was too dangerous.

She jumped at the feel of Meg's hand on her arm. She felt colour rush to her cheeks and realised she had been staring at the man strangely.

She turned to Meg, and when she looked back the man was gone.

"Are you all right?" Meg asked.

"Yes, sorry – I'm not sure what came over me."

"Did you know that man? He was very handsome."

"No… I was in his way, that's all." She took Meg's arm and linked it through her own. "Come, Meg, let's find Peter and go into the next room."

The afternoon passed steadily. Christine stayed close to Meg, smiled at Peter's jokes, and looked at the paintings with interest. She tried not to look at the other people in the crowd, not to wonder if the author of the note was here, watching her from afar. Perhaps Erik was here too, watching her. She would never know, of course, she would only be able to see him if he wanted her to…

The thought was both a comfort and a torment.

oOo

"Excuse me, Monsieur, may I help you?"

The man did not turn around. His silhouette stood black against the timid sun of early morning. The housekeeper took in his back, his shoulders, and the proud top hat. She stood with the door slightly ajar, her fingers trembling imperceptibly.

The man repeated, "I am here to see Monsieur Lockhart," then, at last, turned slowly and the sun invaded every crevice on his face. She recognised at once the proud brow and deep eyes. She wondered why his voice had seemed so different.

"Oh, it's you, Monsieur – I didn't recognise you. This is an unusual hour to call, but I'll tell him you're here."

She trotted off down the hall, leaving the door open. The visitor stood in the doorway silently for a few moments, then, glancing over his shoulder to see that the boulevard behind him was almost empty, he stepped inside and closed the door.

He could hear the muffled noises of a household beginning its daily routine – the footsteps shuffling above, the faraway voices that seemed to rise and fall from nowhere, and the rodent-like scurrying of young maids moving so quickly that they ought to be invisible.

Edgar Lockhart came ambling down the corridor, dressed in a red and white polka-dot waistcoat and a blue cravat. He smiled at his guest.

"Ah, Larsson, what a pleasant surprise!"

Erik nodded casually at the old man. He took off his coat and gloves and placed them on the sideboard – just as he had done many times before.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"There are some things I need to discuss with you," Erik said evenly. He did not return Edgar's smile.

"Well, it must be important, for you to call so early."

"I do apologise for the hour, but I am afraid it cannot wait."

The old man's thin eyebrows jutted together in confusion. He motioned to the small sitting room.

"Come this way."

Erik followed him into the room. It felt strange to be here, in this place of light and warmth. He took it in, knowing that this would be the last time he would be inside this house. He thought fondly of the conversations Edgar and he had shared – talks of politics and history, things Erik had never paid particular attention to before. He felt a slight jolt in his stomach, a kind of sadness that lingered in the soul.

The portrait of Isabella hung above the fireplace, taunting him. Erik looked at her with hate; the secrets she had taken to the grave were alive again, her betrayals infecting the next generation.

He took the chair opposite Edgar, and crossed his legs casually.

"Now then," said Edgar, "tell me what is troubling you, my friend."

"I am not who you think I am," Erik said, smoothing the upholstery with his finger. He fixed his gaze on Edgar; the old man was still smiling.

"I see – and who, in fact, are you?" Edgar asked with a small laugh.

Erik smiled thinly. "I doubt we have the time, or the mental capacity to answer that question." Then his frown returned. "I am a man who does not deserve your friendship."

Edgar regarded Erik for a moment. "I think I know what this is about."

They both sat silently for a few moments. Edgar took off his glasses and rubbed his face wearily.

"I suppose I should have seen this coming, but I had hoped the situation would resolve itself without my involvement," he said gravely. "I did have my suspicions, not long after our first meting. To be honest, I am rather shocked it has taken you so long to tell me…"

"It appears I am weaker than you thought me to be."

Edgar raised his chin. "I believe _weak_ is far from the right word to use. Some might call it a kind of bravery, to act as you have done – to act as you are acting now."

"I certainly would not," Erik said in a low voice.

"Come, Larsson – where is your fighting spirit!"

"It is intact, I assure you," Erik said with a slight smirk, and then his face softened. "I need you to know how difficult this has been, Monsieur; I did not intend for any of it… You have my respect and friendship, for what little they may be worth. But I must at last tell you the real reason for my being here –"

"You know how I value our friendship! It seems I know you better than you think. This business that has been weighing you down, it does not concern just me, does it?"

Erik raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I guessed from the moment you announced your intention of buying a house. That, together with your sudden appearances and, some might say, _odd _behaviour – I may be old, Erik, but I am not blind. Please do not take me for a complete fool."

Erik could not look at him, his insides convulsed and a red heat spread to his ears. For the first time in his life he felt very small.

"This involves Mademoiselle Daaé too, does it not?"

Erik nodded, and managed to choke out the single word, "Yes..."

"Well, I admire you for coming to me first – it cannot be an easy thing to have on your soul, but you are doing the right thing! Did you really think me that brainless? Of course I noticed! I have known from the very first moment you set eyes on each other. And when you said you were looking to buy property, I just knew, I could sense it!"

Erik could only stare at the old man, unable to speak.

"Naturally, with her being an orphan and her guardian away you have sought me out instead. Well, I am honoured! You must not be nervous, I have seen the way she looks at you, and any fool can see how much she cares for you. Why, the girl adores you! She is about as good at hiding it as you are… Oh, how cruel you are to come to my door looking so grave, when all the time you had happy tidings like this to discuss with me!"

Erik found he had regained control of his speech. "Monsieur, there appears to have been some confusion..."

It was Edgar's turn to fall silent.

"While you are correct in your judgment of _my_ feelings for Miss Daaé, I am afraid to say that they are not reciprocated."

"That cannot be so!"

"I'm afraid it is. Believe me; I have more than enough evidence to support what I say. And while my feelings do weigh heavily on my soul, and on my entire wretched existence – they were not the main reason for my being here this morning."

Edgar was confused. "They were not?"

"No."

"Then, tell me the real reason."

Erik stood and walked to the window. This was the right thing to do, the only way. He had caused all of this, it was his crime, and the only way to regain control was with the truth – the despicable, awful truth. He closed his eyes and summoned the image of Christine's face to his mind, and then took a deep breath.

"Very well… it began when I met a man named Henry Cranmer."

oOo


	26. Of Rats and Cowards

Wow, it has been a very long time since I updated this story. If anyone is still reading I would love to hear from you! This chapter follows on directly from the last so it might be worth going back and re-reading a couple to refresh your memories. Just a warning: I haven't been able to have this chapter beta-read, and the only writing time available to me currently is at night. I will post a beta-read copy once I have found someone who may be willing to help (PM me if interested!) but for the meantime try and ignore any typo's that might have escaped my notice. I will hopefully be able to rectify this for up-coming chapters...

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An eye for an eye only leads to more blindness.

_Margaret Atwood_

**oOo**

_**Of Rats and Cowards**_

oOo

Erik turned to look at the old man; a dismal shade of shame intoxicated him. For a moment all he saw was Christine, her eyes weeping bitterly as he wrenched the boy's neck up into the noose - her terror, her hate and her tears that oozed as venomously as blood. _That_ moment was infinitely worse than this, the nethermost of his existence – but this one did not feel much better.

Edgar had not moved, nor did he draw breath. He seemed so small in his chair, so weak, as defeated as a bird that has lived too long in a cage. And yet in his frail bones Erik saw more nobility, more courage than he himself could ever hope to possess. It was an innate, glacial dignity that could not be imitated by a man with a lust for shadow. It was a decorum reserved only for those who had grown up within the light, an imperceptible radiation separating the well-bred from the vulgar. The same light that had transformed Christine's face as she had walked through the water towards him, all those years ago, ready to slay the monster with her mighty soul – to crush his hatred with her bare hands. She had known that her goodness would conquer his poisoned heart; she knew something lay dormant beyond the twisted vines of hate – she had known it even before he had.

Perhaps this confession would bring him a step closer to that kind of honour, to sacrifice everything he wanted for the better cause … to give it all away for the second time.

"I see," Was all Edgar said, he looked at Erik squarely, his eyes seemed to have retreated into his scull – leaving bright pools of shock. "And…you befriended him?"

Erik laughed without humour. "I would not call it friendship. At the time it seemed to be rather more a meeting of minds."

Edgar's voice changed, he spoke as though recalling a nightmare. "I sincerely doubt that your mind is as dark as his, Larsson. In fact I'd be willing to take a bet on it."

"You would be wise to keep the stakes low. As I said, I am not who you think I am. And while I have no intention to explicitly recall my entire past to you, I have done things that would make Henry Cranmer seem nothing more than a mere court jester."

Edgar sank down further into his chair, his old eyes searching for a horizon that would not appear. His frail fingers gripped on to the edge of the armrest, allowing him to perch upright.

"Who are you?" He said, almost in a whisper. But then his mind seemed to battle against him, and he slammed the armrest with his crumbling knuckle. "I do not care who you are, I cannot believe such things of you! I will not _let_ you be as bad as him!"

"I am." Erik said, he voice was stronger than he had intended, the quiet room added an echo he did not expect. He knew his tone was not that of a man pleading for forgiveness, but he could not help it.

"Very well, if this outburst is your solemn truth, I suppose I am obliged to believe whatever you choose to tell me. So far you have acted like nothing but a gentleman to me and my family, and I will continue to treat you as such until you change my mind." Edgar said. Apparently still in denial.

"I don't think that will take long," Erik said - he noted the change in the old man's face, shock taking the form of betrayal. "I advise you to be prudent, monsieur - it will be in the best interests of _everyone_ concerned to believe what I say, do not let my previous conduct cloud your good sense. The facts, I'm sure, will speak for themselves."

"Everyone?" said Edgar, choosing only to hear that one word. "…what do you mean _everyone_?"

Erik did not speak; he looked at the floor for a few moments, breathing deeply. It was not anger that affected him, but something else. His stoic countenance retreated for a moment – he seemed far away.

Edgar noticed the change in Erik's posture, a slight hunch of the shoulders and crick in the neck. The black suit and long overcoat made him resemble some wild creature, dripping with the dark rain of night, ready to leap from the crumbling precipice into the drowning world beneath.

"Tell me everything," said the old man "do not spare my feelings – I want the truth. You owe me that much."

"As you wish," Erik said quietly and, Edgar noticed, almost sadly.

Erik recovered himself with what seemed like a sharp gust of wind to the face, his posture was straight – his eyes arid and withering.

"The particulars of my life before meeting Henry Cranmer concern nobody but me. But as you correctly guessed, my attachment to Christine Daaé began a long time before I knew of the existence of either you or Henry. I had left Paris, vowing never to return; these shores were to be as foreign to me as ice from fire. However, several months ago Fate endeavored to send me to London - where I found myself at the mercy of one Henry Cranmer. Our paths crossed at the behest of a mutual friend…"

Edgar scoffed "Henry does not have any friends – only bloodthirsty associates!"

"Very well, a _mutual associate_ recommended that I stay with him while I was in England. I was adrift without a destination, and was swept along by Fortune's callous plans. It wasn't long before I came to realise that the world had dealt Henry and I similar fates – we both played with the black cards of Death and corruption. We were dead shadows – cast out of the light because of our own vile deeds. Until you have lived without companionship, without kin, you cannot appreciate the spark that comes from a meeting of minds. The life he had paved for himself reminded me so much of my own…for the first time in my life I felt a weak, twisted connection. I am ashamed to admit that it clouded my judgment for a time. While I have always understood men like Henry, it has never been within my nature to become fond of them – unfortunately on this occasion providence deserted me."

"Are you telling me you'd never had a friend before?" Edgar seemed shocked, almost to amusement.

Erik's entire body seemed to close in. "_No_." He said simply.

Edgar didn't move, that one word conveyed more desperate sadness than a thousand words from the scholars of old.

Erik laughed slightly. "… and clearly I have been unsuccessful at keeping the few I havemade since coming back to Paris..." He continued. "Henry told me the story of his life and I could relate to it in a way I had never known before, what is the proverb? … _Rats know the way of rats_."

"You were told _his _version of the truth I'm sure, with certain details conveniently mislaid." Edgar said.

"Let me see…" said Erik "He told me of his grand passion for Isabella, and of his certain, shall we say, _zest _for crime. He told me about their relationship, _childhood sweethearts_ dreaming of a life together…how her love for him crumbled and turned to hatred when she discovered the true colour of his nature. It is strange, don't you think, how women give their love freely until they learn what you really are, and then crudely snap it away… the real conundrum, I suppose, is _who_ is actually to blame for such a situation – who is the deceiver and who the deceived? Who has been truly misled?"

He stood there for a moment, looking at nothing, and then he snapped his gaze back to Edgar. "Forgive me, I am digressing somewhat… Henry told me how Isabella met and married you and how she came to love you more because of your goodness – how you saved her from his darkness and gave her the life he could not."

Erik stopped still, remorse thickening his voice "Edgar, he told me about the child, he knows about Peter…he has always known."

Erik watched as Edgar's face drained, every sinew slowly turning to ice. He did not give the old man a chance to speak. He began to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back, the confession oozing from him like hot tears.

"He wants revenge. He has always wanted it, but while the memory of Isabella burned inside him he would not act – in truth I do not know if he would have ever acted upon it. But I, _I_ convinced him to find his child. How could he stand to be abhorred and hated by a family member, how could he live knowing that there was no tie of blood in the world to value his existence? In my mind you took the form of all of the misfortunes that had ever befallen me, you became the portrait of it all – a bourgeois bureaucrat in a perfect society, someone who stole the small shards of happiness thrown at the feet of the beggars of this world, when you had enough to feed upon for generations. In short, I was a self-pitying fool looking for someone else to blame; I took it upon myself to hate you and everything you stood for."

He could see a thousand expressions pass before the old man's face in the space of one moment, like some kind of absurd puppet show - a devastating montage of disbelief, horror and grief. Erik kept on, morbidly addicted to the truth.

"I had no sympathy, no mercy - you reminded me of someone I had spent two years cursing to my marrow. Henry's hatred and retribution took the form of mine – his losses seemed to mirror mine. Obsessions I had not cured were called up and served to me coldly, it seemed to me that if I could help him, if I could avenge… _something, _my own regrets would be eased and some kind of order would be restored to the world. Vengeance against you somehow became vengeance against them … And I can say now, with a hand against my black heart – that _I _offered to help him, he did not ask anything of me. It is entirely because of me that this has happened. I wanted to come back to Paris; all I required was a convenient motive - one that was not mine. I could then pretend to myself that it was Fate, some divine coincidence, which would perhaps bring her back into my life."

Erik stopped and looked out of the window; the air was grey with rain. The droplets tried to hit his face, but hit the glass and fell meekly before his eyes.

"You cannot know how my actions and feelings from that time have disgraced me these last months. You have been more of a friend to me than anyone I have ever known. But I will not beg and plead for forgiveness. I _cannot_. I did not even want to tell you any of this…" He smiled a little "– it seems my dishonesty runs deep. I intended to keep all of this from you and resolve the situation without anybody knowing. I planned to trick you into thinking me a good man…"

"And not only you, but Christine also … some miracle, or perhaps curse, has brought her back to me. She thinks I have changed, that I am an upright and respectable man who can protect her from the dark forces in this world. She looks upon me almost as a friend. She does not know that Iam the dark force behind all of this…"

Erik waited for the old man to say something, to condemn him with vile words, to chastise him for attempting to have any kind of relationship with Christine. But there was nothing, only silence and Edgar's pale, unmoving face. Erik longed for words, for some kind of judgement or contempt from the old man, but Edgar offered only silence. Erik was forced to continue:

"…So now you can see just how wrong you have been about me. The sins I have been hiding within the night are now free shine treacherously in the daylight. It seems that my dishonour and your secret are twisted together in a sordid embrace…and now Henry is in Paris, and has chosen to exact his revenge against us all – even Christine."

He turned to the old man again, but Edgar still did not speak. His mouth was pursed together tightly in a thin purple line. Erik sighed; there was no relief within him, only a disgusting remorse that seemed to rot his insides.

"I have told you all of this because you deserve to know the truth, I should have told you sooner – but I cannot change that now, and in truth I did not expect to find such contentment in your friendship… all I can do now is tell you that I am sorry, and promise you that by tomorrow Henry Cranmer will haunt your steps no more. You should stay indoors, and avoid your usual routine – it is quite possible he has been watching you. You have nothing to fear, I will see to it that Henry does not cause harm to any of you. Then I will leave Paris and you can all move on from this mess."

The small amount of colour that had been in the Edgar's cheeks had melted away – now there was nothing.

"Leave? Leave Paris?" Said the old man suddenly "Ah, and that's your solution to this mess, to run away?" Edgar's watery blue eyes held Erik's defiantly.

"I thought that would be what you wanted? Surely you do not mean to try and convince me to stay? – the very sight of me should make you sick."

"My sight has been deteriorating for years – so that will help us for the moment. And in time, well, you may prove me wrong yet again and turn out to be the man I originally thought I had found…and what about Miss Daaé, surely you don't mean to leave her without an explanation, not after everything you have just confessed."

"She will want it this way when she learns the truth – believe me."

The old man sighed wearily "Erik, you know nothing of _real_ life do you? You know nothing of family and love. If you want everything you say you want, running away will never be the answer! The hard thing, the _decent_ thing will be to stay and make Christine see that you are a constant in her life, that she can rely on you to stay – for better or for worse. If that means confessing to her as you have to me, so be it! – And if she does not want to see you after that, then that is another matter. But at least it will be her choice, you will not be depriving her of a decision that is hers to make. Running away will only cause more pain in the long run, take it from someone who knows, matters such as these cannot be buried forever! …That poor girl, her father is gone, her childhood sweetheart is on the other side of the Atlantic, and now it seems that you will leave her too." The old man seemed to be growing more agitated by the second, but his hands remained calm and poised in his lap.

Erik was looking at the old man nonsensically; surely Edgar mocked him.

"Why _have_ you decided to tell me now?" Edgar said.

"There was no alternative in my mind, telling you eliminates some of Henry's power and gives you more. You know everything now," he smiled, choosing to echo Edgar's words. "_For better or for worse_. I will find Henry and whoever else he may have brought with him… but it must end now. I have made up my mind to go, if I stay here another day, if I spend time with her again as I have done over these last months… I cannot lie to her, one way or another she must know the truth. I _must_ end it tonight."

Edgar looked at Erik for a moment, and then his eyes drifted to the window.

"But that's just it, Erik – this is not your mess to end. I knew this would happen one day… when Peter was born we thought that Henry would come, but he did not. And then, when my Isabella died I thought he would come, but he did not. Every year older Peter got, I thought that perhaps that was the year… but it never was. But I knew it would happen one day… everyone must answer for their crimes…"

Erik raised a skeptical brow. "And what crime have you committed?"

"I took another man's child and raised him as my own! There is no greater crime, Erik. I have deceived the person I love the most for the whole of his young life... you have become tangled up in something that should have ended years ago. As I said, _everyone_ must answer for their crimes, even me."

"Do not be absurd!" Erik sneered "I know men like Henry, he would have destroyed that boy, you may not be his real father but you have given him a better life – you saved him. Sometimes facts are not enough to make a story whole."

"Yes that may be so – if we take into account the bare facts of what you have told me today we may conclude that you are a treacherous wretch who should be sent form here and never spoken to again. But as you said, Erik, the facts do not tell the whole tale. It is not one rule for me and another for you. You have done wrong, yes, but you stopped working for Henry once you realised it was immoral, you have become a dear friend to me and my son, and I refuse to believe that your friendship is false…and you love that girl - more than I have seen any man love a woman in my long old life…There is nothing you have done that cannot be set right."

Erik was aghast, almost beyond words. "But I lied to you!"

"Yes you did, and while that makes you a scoundrel, it does not make you the villain. The villain of this whole thing is Henry, or perhaps even me. But not you - not in this case, anyway. As you said – your past is not mine to judge, only you can absolve yourself of those sins. All men lie, Erik, but not all men face up to those lies with the truth – and all things considered I think that you are very brave."

Erik could almost laugh in his face. "Brave!"

"Yes, do not worry – although I believe in your sincerity when you proclaimed me a friend, I do not flatter myself that my friendship is the reason you are here. I think, in that respect, I was very close in my original guess – is that not correct?"

Erik turned away, somehow irritated by the old man's rational mind. "That does not matter now. And why do you declare yourself a villain? I have never heard anything so preposterous – you are almost a saint when compared to me."

"Saints are always villains to someone. My lies and weaknesses are far worse than any you have committed."

Erik gave him a bitter smirk. "Yes, I'm sure they are."

"You mock me but it is true – I have taken a child away from his real father and raised him as my own. None should play God but God himself! I married a woman knowing that her heart still belonged to that other man – despicable as he was, all because Iloved her too much to lose her"

Erik turned away from the old man, unable to believe what he was hearing. Edgar continued:

"Oh, I know she loved me better than him in the end, but on that day – the day we were married – she still loved him. I knew it, but I was too proud to admit it. And now my actions from over twenty years ago are threatening the lives of the people I care about now. So you see, it is not so difficult for me to forgive your lies, because it was _my lies_ that brought you to my door – I have been waiting for this moment for twenty years. In some ways it is quite a relief to have it finally out in the open. And, as I said, nothing has happened here that cannot be set right. I will tell Peter the truth, but I need to tell him, I cannot let Henry get to him first. And I will inform the _gendarmes_ of Henry's presence in Paris. If what you say is true and he is here, the British and French authorities will want to know, they have wanted to catch him since _I_ was a boy. We must let the law take care of him."

"Henry has made contact with me, nobody else. It will not be as simple as you think to catch him. All the _gendarmes_ in Paris couldn't catch a rat in the depths of his own labyrinth– believe me. He is not the type of man to simply seek his son out and beg for reconciliation and welcome an arrest from the local authorities - there will be blood first."

"Blood?" Edgar said, his skin prickling "The blood of whom?"

"I do not yet know – and I do not intend to find out. You were wrong when you said that this was not my mess to end – this is as much my mess as it is yours. I saw to that when I became involved and Henry saw to it when he contacted Christine. This _is_ my problem now…Henry is my vermin. Give me until tomorrow morning, if and then you may involve your precious _gendarmes_."

Erik looked at the clock, it was fast approaching noon. Christine would be at the gallery with Meg and Peter. He could almost feel the sinister eyes watching her, like those of a spider waiting in the shadowy dark. His mind pulsed:

"Any other reproaches you have to make at me, or any radical solutions to this mess will have to wait, for I fear that time is against me…" he walked back and forth for a short time and then he looked at Edgar, "May I beg of you some ink and parchment; I have some letters to write that cannot wait…"

Edgar was bemused "Err, why of course, you may use my bureau." He pointed to the regal wooden desk that sat in the corner of the room. Erik made for it straight away.

Edgar stared at him for a few moments, mesmerized, and then seemed to recover his faculties. "Erik I cannot allow you to do this alone, I am old and have spent my life in fear of the treacherous shadow of Henry Cranmer, I want to face him now to blot out his ruthlessness with truth and the law – I want to spend my final years in sunlight – _let_ me help you…"

Erik, who was now sitting and writing furiously at the mahogany bureau, looked up with a frown. "No, I _must_ do it alone. I am completely inflexible on the subject."

Edgar rose and left the room, leaving his guest to scribble away. Erik, who was completely lost in his task, did not notice the old man leave, but took his silence for calm acquiescence.

An hour had chimed by when Erik slid the last of his three letters into an envelope and sealed it, he had just finished writing the address when Edgar appeared in the doorway, dressed in his best suit and top hat.

"I must leave you now, Erik; I have an important engagement that cannot wait. The maid will see you out when you are done. I hope you will call on me again tomorrow with some news, _my friend_."

Erik did not know whether these last words were said with censure or sincerity. But that did not matter - Edgar was out of the door and in his carriage before Erik had the chance to move and seize him. He stood and rushed to the hallway, even though he knew he would not catch him. "Damn him, the fool!" he hissed under his breath.

He dropped back down in the chair and ran his hands through his hair, anger trembling in his fingers. What a fool of a man Edgar was indeed, gallivanting off and giving no indication of his intentions! A small part of him admired the old man, for he was not accountable to Erik, he had every right to act exactly as he wished. But damn him, damn him! What did he intend to do, draw Henry out with a weak trap and have him arrested? Erik sighed; the law becoming involved was the very last thing he wanted.

Edgar's carriage had not long departed when there was a soft knock at the front door, followed by a shuffling of feet from outside. Erik stood up and walked into the hallway, a letter lay on the floor. He glanced at the ceiling; he could hear the maid upstairs, busying herself with some menial task and humming as she worked. The rain had given way and sunlight shone through the glass panels on the front door, enlarging his shadow as he approached the small white envelope. His black shape blotted out the radiant glow of light. He smiled when he saw the scrawl, for it was very familiar to his eyes. It was the same as that on the letters that had been sent to Christine. It read: _Monsieur E. Lockhart_.

He picked the letter up and placed it casually in his suit, he then returned to collect his other letters from the bureau and left the house quietly.

When he left he noticed the small beggar boy lingering in the rue, presumably he had been told to wait until the old man returned and would receive the letter. Erik's mouth twitched into a slight smirk.

The boy did not hear the footsteps that seemed to rise suddenly from nowhere, he did not see the black gloved fist that's seized his collar. The boy flinched with shock, and the colour rose in his small freckled face. He turned around, and it seemed he would gulp with fear.

Erik touched the brim of his hat with his free hand and nodded politely, as if addressing someone of great consequence. "If you would be so kind as to come with me, monsieur, I believe you can help me trace a mutual acquaintance…"


	27. I Need Light

AN: Thanks to theblacksister for Beta-reading this chapter. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for the feedback for chapter 26!

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"A love story is not about those who lost their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon,

means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past."

Michael Ondaatje - The English Patient

oOo

I Need Light

oOo

Erik sighed and leaned back against the seat of his paid-off hansom cab. Today was not going according to plan. He felt a continuous throb of sorrow, the sense of an ending, changes he had set into motion gathering momentum at a pace he could not control. The future was escaping from his clutches, and he did not have the strength to keep up with the pace.

It was now late afternoon, and through the glass he saw that the short winter day had tired of daylight and that a gentle darkness was now settled around the city. It seemed eerie, this embryonic phase of night, in which people were as alive and busy as they had been in the bright morning but ignored the shadows that beckoned for them to return home and let the nocturnal inhabitants roam freely.

So far this day had been nothing but a blind chase around Paris. He had been to every place that he knew Henry had once had contacts, but there had been no word or sight of him. A few men were very interested at the mention of the old man's name, and Erik had the feeling that he was not alone in his hunt for the man the underworld called 'Cut-throat Cranmer'. A name lovingly bestowed on the old man on account of him always killing his enemies with a dirty blade. One man claimed that Henry had severed all ties years ago, and now relied upon the small gangs of urchins to provide a network of information around the city, Erik was not surprised to hear this, for had had one of these such 'tearaways' in his possession earlier today. Henry now sent men from England to do his killing and no longer relied on Frenchmen to do his dirty work – if he was in Paris, there was many a Parisian with a grudge and a score to settle. Henry would be a fool to come back alone…

Erik had paid his thanks, and left in a state of mild fury. He felt unclean, the deepest parts of him sullied by the corruption of that place. He was ashamed that he had to seek information from such people. Ashamed that he had brought himself so low that he had entered into an acquaintance with one such as Henry.

He had deposited the small urchin at the nearest orphanage; he had sought out the patroness, claiming that he had found the young boy in tears and begging to be returned to his mother. The boy had made no protest, especially when he saw the sum of money that was paid to the woman, a dowry of sorts, that was to be held in trust and returned to him on the condition he stayed at the orphanage for at least four years, and attended lessons with the local priest who saw to the education of all of the orphans. The money was that which had been paid to Erik by Henry to aid him in his search for Edgar, and Erik did not want a single centime of it! It seemed like a small justice to leave it for this boy. To help correct a soul that Henry sought to debase with crime. The small fortune would be enough to give the boy a small head-start, and four years should be time enough to sever his ties to the underworld.

The patroness had found it rather odd that the boy was dressed in rags and would not speak… but Erik soon talked her round, with an adopted tone of pity to his words: "Ah, Madame… " he had said "how can we judge a child such as this one, when we have no way of knowing what horrors he may have seen. If an institution like yours had only taken pity on me in my hour of need, I might not have succumbed to such injuries as this," he touched the mask with a look of profound sorrow and the lady held her handkerchief to her face to keep from weeping. Erik silently conceded that perhaps he had been on the wrong side of the stage for all the years he had lived at the Opera, for his performance momentarily convinced even himself, and the boy was looking at him with a kind of dumbstruck awe. The woman had wiped away her tears and patted the young boy on the head. She had then led him away to a life away from the gutter. And that had been the end of the matter.

Trying to bribe the boy had been useless; it seemed that the little scamp was rather fond of his current employer and would not give up his whereabouts to a masked assailant. No amount of money could tempt him to speak, and the boy had stared at his threats with wide, hollow eyes.

Erik thought back to when he had been a boy, on the run from the gypsy camp or any passer-by unfortunate enough to have seen his face; he would have taken any amount of money offered to him, even if it meant betraying someone who had been foolish enough to trust him. Survival had been all that had mattered to him then, to live for the future – for something that he did not yet know, but could feel pulsing in his bones. Survive, take what you can, protect yourself from the daggers that hunt you even at night…

And it was _then_ that Erik realised, it was not money Henry had offered to these unhappy souls – it was protection. Protection from the eels and sharks of the sewer by the biggest fish of them all. And perhaps even the promise of a life away from all this loneliness, a life of crime and safety on the black, soot soaked streets of London. Erik realised that he had been stupid – so incredibly stupid to abduct the boy as he had done. A year ago he would have taken his time, followed the boy, and planned a perfectly executed revenge… But he had panicked, he had unwittingly become weak, so consumed by his futile love for Christine that he had forgotten his most basic instincts. Forgotten what it was to be a predator.

He felt a sudden flurry of shame that he had taken this child and attempted to bribe him like he was a grown man. That he had resorted to such base and underhand tactics to get what he wanted. And it was that shame that had taken him to the door of the orphanage. He himself would have happily found solace in a place such as that in his youth, had not his face caused even the most Christian of women to screech and bid him to _'return to Hell, son of the Devil!'_

He took out the note that had been left at Edgar's door and read it again:

_My Dearest Monsieur,_

_Time has separated us for these two decades, but, like all things, time has run out._

_I will await your presence at the graveside of our beloved, at midnight. One of us will rest beside her this evening, and the other shall claim the boy for the rest of his life._

_You can have them both no longer._

_Affectionately,_

_H. Cranmer_.

Erik smiled. Edgar would not be there waiting for him. He had intercepted this note just in time. But he did not want to face the crime lord at the grave side of his 'beloved' Isabella. No. Henry would not get the dramatic scene he so hoped for.

Seeing that young boy find a home had reminded him of his old home at the Opera, his one solace. The house he had once so painstakingly made a haven to music, his sanctuary away from the entire world. In times of the deepest fear and despair, he could still hear those murky caverns calling his name... begging him to return, to crawl back like black vermin to the hovel he had created… He sat upright suddenly; why had it never occurred to him before? Of course he knew where to find Henry! He had solved the riddle himself when talking to Edgar that very morning_: 'rats know the way of rats... '_

Erik smirked and tapped the roof of the cab "Turn around, please, monsieur, there has been a change of destination – I need to go to the _Rue de Bellevue_"

"_Very well, sir_!" the driver shouted down from his bench.

Erik sat back with a kind of triumph, but his bright success was only a hollow one, and once again he felt sorrow resonate through him. He was haunted by his conversation with Edgar that morning, by the apparent ease of the old man's forgiveness and understanding. He did not know how to trust such motives, there did not seem to be any gain for Edgar in forgiving him, nothing at all…

"_So far you have been nothing but a gentleman to me and my family…you are not the villain…we should let the law deal with him…"_ he could not force the words would not leave his mind. In a way, Edgar was right, why not let the law deal with this, he could give Edgar the notes that had been sent to Christine and let the old man take care of things himself. Henry was a wanted man, he had been so for twenty years, the _gendarme_s needed only a location and then it would all be over. Henry would face the gallows and Erik could move on and live a free life … but it was not right, it was not right – he needed, in some way, to help put an end to this. It had never mattered to him before, but he now felt a sense of duty – of obligation. A lone soldier in a war of his own making.

But he was not a soldier. And there was no war, no turmoil in the streets to barricade human nature in against itself, there was no blood in the gutter or a train to take him away to a distant, dark front line. There was only this delirious, silent, vengeful battle against himself – against the agonising humanity that threatened to surface and make him whole. To make him turn and face the ugly guilt that was the cure to his madness. And somehow, this was infinitely worse.

Erik shuddered at the recollection of the old man's words, they were true, in a way. But within them was the same pity as he had heard once before, the words that had beheld a broken creature and had proclaimed him to be not alone. But he was alone, and if he was to ever become sane that was the one fact he could not let himself forget… It was too easy to take up the reprieve those words offered and let someone else deal with Henry.

"Do you still wish to call at the restaurant, monsieur?" the coachman called again. Erik looked up and realised that they were now in the centre of Paris.

"Yes," he said, with sorrow. "I am afraid I must…"

oOo

Christine felt a stinging in her cheeks and anxiety simmering up inside; it rose to her face and spread out in a trickle of heat. She watched as the bubbles in the champagne glass before her fizzled up and popped, over and over, flailing and writhing against an unstoppable current. She could not drink another glass. Peter, who was carried away by love and his engagement, had ordered this marvellous inferno of liquid for their table and was merrily drinking and laughing with his lovely fiancée. For Meg's sake Christine had tried to be in good spirits, to ignore the ominous shadow that hid in the bowels of her anxiety. But there was no relent. She had been happy to leave the crowded art gallery with its cramped rooms, but as soon she had escaped to the open air of the cold boulevard she had wished again to be inside, sheltered from the millions of faces that seemed to find the root of her fear with their searching eyes. The restaurant was so far the biggest challenge of the day, she could not eat at all even though hunger ravaged at her painfully. She ran her clammy hands across her skirts, and then took a sip of champagne.

"Don't be so silly, Peter. Of course I will not need a maid," Meg was saying from across the table. "I have always managed alone, or with the help of mamman and Christine. I don't intend to get delusions of grandeur just because I'm married!"

"Mother always had one." Peter said, reddening slightly. "At least promise to consider it."

"All right, I'll think about it. But I would feel rather awkward; I'm not a countess or a duchess – just a little ballerina."

Peter grinned and kissed her hand.

Christine smiled at their affectionate banter. She had been excluded from the conversation for the last few minutes, but instead of feeling offended she felt just the opposite. While she was quiet she did not have to pretend. She could wallow in her fear. Wallow in the growing sensation that had been intensifying inside her these last months, delicately and slowly, taking root at the core of her being. Today, it seemed to have taken over all of her: heart, veins and bones.

It was a pain that had been swelling inside her ever since she had seen that note, an unbidden and strange sensation that seemed to have been forever inside, but mute. It felt like tears, strange black tears of unquenchable agony. All of these sensations were directed at the man she had run to, and she was confused because she was unsure whether they really existed or were shadows prowling through her soul on tiptoe. Silent screams in the forest of the heart

Strangely, as this feeling intensified, she began to face many of the realities that had caused her so much pain and turmoil in previous years. Truths that she had ignored in favour of a life of solitary denial - words she had never spoken for fear of the terrible truth. But the past was gone – irrecoverable. She lived now, this was her only reality. She dared herself to repeat the thoughts, and face the agonies that lingered in each syllable_. Father is dead, I will never see him again. Raoul is gone, his happiness is something I can never share. There never was an Angel of Music, there was only a man._ But that man was still here, he was alive, and there was something in his eyes that made her soul bleed. Her cheeks burned at the very thought of him. Shamefully she wanted him to be here now, with her, but she knew she would be too terrified to look into his eyes. And there was also Meg, Madame Giry and Monsieur Edgar; not replacements her real family but people she loved, people who filled the void.

And that note, she should have fled to Edgar or to the nearest gendarme… but she had not, she had not…

"Ah, what a merry little party you three make!" said a voice approaching the table. Meg, Peter and Christine all looked up to see Edgar walking towards them with his usual jaunty gait.

"Father!" exclaimed Peter with surprise, standing up and warmly embracing Edgar. The waiters, who knew Edgar very well, were busily setting a place for him at the table. Christine felt sheer relief at seeing him, and a hint of disappointment that he appeared to be alone.

Edgar took a seat and enquired about their day out. He refused to eat, but warmly accepted the offered glass of champagne. After a few minutes of polite chatting, Meg and Peter resumed their playful teasing, and seemed to forget all about Christine and Edgar. The old man smiled strangely in the face of his son's happiness, and then turned to Christine.

"Are you well, my dear?" he asked.

"Yes, very well," she said, lying. "Today has been so lovely. I don't think I have ever seen Meg so happy."

"Yes, and Peter also. It is a fine thing to see two young people so in love…" he stopped, and began to inspect the fine crystal of his glass. Then he looked back to Meg and Peter and chuckled suddenly. "They've had it rather easy if you ask me. Usually there is a barrage of obstacles to defeat before one finds true happiness. And all they did was meet, fall in love, and get their parents' approval… and then poof!" he smacked his hands together theatrically, making Christine jump "They'll be married before we know it…"

"It has been rather a whirlwind," Christine said.

"Probably the best way, get married first and then discover all the other person's faults. Isabella and I weren't so lucky, between us there was enough baggage to fill a small mansion. But I was glad of it, and I don't regret it. To be able to forgive is a fine thing, a very fine thing… Acceptance and love can only truly come from compete abandonment, trust, and forgiveness."

Christine nodded, and smiled at Edgar in a way that made him suddenly understand how she had completely mastered a man like Erik. She looked at him with a kind of distant wonder. "Perhaps, the real test is to remember that we all have faults, some people are just more honest about them than others…"

Edgar looked at her and smiled, as though she had just discovered the meaning of life. Christine did not know why Edgar was confiding this to her, and it seemed that he was not too sure himself. He took another sip of champagne, and continued to look at Peter sadly.

"I saw our good friend Larsson this morning." He said indifferently.

"Oh," Christine said, in polite enquiry "I hope he is well?"

"Yes, yes, very well. Such a busy man, always rushing here and there." He paused… "But he seems to have everything under control."

"I am glad he is doing so well."

"I should go," Said Edgar, "I only came by to say a quick hello." He stood and motioned for the waiter to collect his hat and jacket.

"Are you leaving already?" Peter said. "I was hoping we all have a lovely walk together after dinner."

"Yes, I'm afraid I must, I am late for a rendezvous – very late indeed."

Peter laughed. "That sounds rather ominous!"

Edgar did not laugh along with his son, but merely smiled. "Why don't you all stay here for a while where it's warm. You don't want to be roaming the streets, it's freezing outside. You have two ladies with you, Peter – try to remember that before you start planning wild excursions out into the cold wilderness… And take the carriage home, not one of these awful hansom cabs…"

"Now you see where my snobbery comes from!" Peter whispered to Meg, who tried hard to suppress a giggle.

When the waiter had helped Edgar on with his coat and hat, and the old man had wished them all a fond farewell, Edgar turned to leave, but before he did he returned to the table and stood beside Peter and Meg, taking one of each of their hands in his. "It brings me such joy to see you both so happy. Such incredible joy."

He wiped something away from his eye and gave a small, sad wink to Christine. And then he was gone.

oOo

Edgar had not been gone five minutes when Christine felt an insatiable need for air. The champagne, fear and longing gathering inside her proved to be a potent cocktail and she did not know whether she was more likely to cry, faint or run home as fast as she could.

"Please, excuse me a moment," she said to Meg and Peter. "I need to get some air,"

"Are you all right?" Peter asked "Would you like me to come outside with you?"

"No, I'll be fine – I think I might have had one too many glasses of champagne – that's all," she smiled as best she could and Meg and Peter laughed. "I shall not be long…"

She walked briskly outside and down the alley at the side of the restaurant. She sank down onto the steps in the doorway of some modest dwelling and rested her head in her hands. She felt tears on her face and morbidly wondered if they would freeze on her cheeks.

"Crying alone in the dark?" said a voice that seemed to be suddenly beside her.

Christine's head snapped up with a gasp. She saw Erik leaning against the wall, smiling at her. For a moment she was pleased to see him, and a smile found its way to her lips.

"I thought we had decided that you would not be alone at any time today?" he said, with a hint of caution to his words.

She gazed back at him, without fear "And I thought that you had given up hiding in the shadows?"

He still smiled, but all joy died on his face. "Almost," he said.

"I had to get away, just for a moment – I'm so tired of feeling scared and trying to pretend that everything is normal."

Erik came to sit beside her on the step. She felt herself redden as his arm gently grazed against hers. Her heart pounded, she felt him looking at her but kept her eyes on the floor. She continued:

"My best friend is getting married and I should be happy and able to celebrate with her, but instead I'm crying in an alley and looking over my shoulder every minute. I don't want to be afraid any more. Of anything."

"I will do everything I can to take this fear away from you." He said, then he laughed slightly "Perhaps, I shall resurrect the Opera Ghost for one final performance…"

"Please, no," she said, she felt lighter and laughed along with him. "You have changed so much since then…I won't allow you to go back."

"Many things have changed," said Erik.

"Yes, many things," she echoed "perhaps me most of all. I never thought I'd live a life where music was not at the centre of it. In truth, I haven't sung a single note since – since the Opera. I can't, it seems impossible." She looked at him and smiled. "Though, perhaps you were not the best person to confess that to…"

Erik shrugged, then and sighed. "It is your life, Christine. Do not feel guilty for things that are now past – you will sing again when you feel ready. And until then…well, perhaps you could find music in another way. I am led to believe your father was a rather good violinist."

"I've often wanted to learn – but I wouldn't know where to begin."

"There are many fine teachers in Paris," he said. Christine shot him a wary look.

"Do not worry, I wasn't going to suggest it."

With his off-handed sense of humour, casual shrug of the shoulders and sincere lament for the past, Christine saw that perhaps he really _had_ changed. His passive humanity seemed suddenly to flesh out the parts of him that were once so hollow. He was still him, but alive.

"All of that; losing my father, the Opera – it feels another lifetime in which I did not know myself. But, I think I am finally beginning to understand it all. I know why I was so afraid…" She suddenly felt brave, as though she could leap from the towering pillar of fear that she had been shackled to and fly all by herself. She could finally breathe, and as she looked at him now, this man, Erik _Larsson_, she felt it all the fear, passion and pity be replaced by one single sensation – her heart throbbed with fire.

"Erik," she said, walking towards the edge. "I think..."

"I am sorry for all of the pain and fear you have felt." He said, seeming to be lost entirely in his own thoughts. "I cannot go back and change the things that have passed, but I promise you that this will all be over very soon. Here, I have something for you…" he handed her a small letter. "Do not worry, it is from me."

Christine studied it for a moment, her unheard declaration stinging her throat. She swallowed hard, and made to open the letter.

"No, not now," Erik rested his hand on hers, stopping her. "Please, do not open it until dawn – there will be no more darkness for you then. And the world will be as it should."

She put her hand atop of his. Confused, aching and terrified. Whatever she had wanted to tell him mere moments before seemed to be suddenly lost. The shackle was around her ankle again.

"I am glad you came back to Paris… that we got this second chance." she said, because it was all that she _could_ say.

He took her hand and kissed it. Her heart leapt a little, but still could not fly.

"For you there are as many second chances as sunrises – no more darkness. Never again will you look over your shoulder in fear."

Christine stroked his cheek, and then his hair. Erik closed his eyes, and she did not know if he did so out of desire or shame. Even now, she did not know anything. She leant forward and kissed him softly, first his cheek and then his mouth. Somehow wanting to make him feel the sensation that she had felt only moments before, to cure the hurt that still lingered inside him, to give him the glorious emotion she had awoken but could feed on her own.

He rested his forehead against hers, still keeping his eyes closed.

Christine pulled away slowly, and they sat in a soft silence. The only barricade before them was one of their own making, but one that seemed impossible to breach. Christine thought that she was finally strong enough to stand up and face whatever lay beyond it, but she then remembered the shame on Erik's face when she had touched him and realised that she was still alone.

"I do not want to leave you. But I have already stayed too long – there is another engagement I must attend before the night is out…"

"You sound like Monsieur Edgar," Christine said, distantly.

"Edgar?"

"Yes, he was here earlier, apparently he had a more pressing engagement, so he did not stay long..."

Erik's entire being became suddenly animated, and Christine did not know what could have possibly brought about so drastic a change. He stood up and pulled her up with him.

"You should go back; they will be worried about you." His hands lingered on her shoulders for a few moments, and it seemed he would say something else, but he pulled himself away from her.

"Yes, you are right – it was foolish to come out here alone. Are you sure everything will be all right?"

"I am sure," he said. "Everything is under control…I promise."

"Then, you know who has been following me?"

"Yes, it seems to be something of a misunderstanding. Please, do not worry. I will explain everything tomorrow."

His tone left little room for argument and Christine did not want to battle against him. Not now.

"All right," she said "Tomorrow, then. There are some things I need to tell you, too."

He nodded and walked with her to the front of the building, the gas-lamps came into view, and there was suddenly light and people everywhere.

She began to walk towards the restaurant and he backed away, receding once again into the shadows…

"Erik," she called softly, while the light still hovered casually about his face. He looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were again full of shame. She smiled at him, wryly. "Please take care."

oOo

Back in the safety of his cab, Erik closed his eyes, he breathed deeply and tried to clear his mind - but all he saw was Christine.

He knew now that he would not kill Henry, he would not kill another living soul as long as he lived. He did not want to have ever killed anyone at all, not the drunken stagehand, none of the political assassinations he had carried out in Persia and India. None of them. Her presence had brought this promise from him, a silent bargain in which he had surrendered everything to her. He had made this promise to another, long ago, with only the scorching Persian sun to bear witness. He had not kept the promise then, but he would now. He felt the remorse for all of those lives he had ruined seep slowly inside him; it was bitter and hot, and it clenched his heart so tightly that he could not breathe. But he did not turn away from it; he opened himself and tasted the sourness of guilt.

Christine had taken his face in her hands and kissed him. Not with hope, as in the bowels of the Opera. Not with angry passion as in the darkness of her sitting room. But reverently and softly, with something that felt like love. And it was then that Erik realised... she had finally done it, now the ghost was dead.

oOo


	28. The Anatomy of Betrayal

AN: Sorry for the delay. I hope you are still with me on this. Thank you so much for the reviews and words of encouragement – I WILL finish this story in the next few months. The next chapter is well underway! Please continue to let know what you think.

_Tell the truth, but tell it slant._

Emily Dickinson

oOo

_**The Anatomy of Betrayal**_

oOo

Meg sat back in the carriage with a dejected sigh. She looked out the window with a small pout, and then turned to her silent friend.

"If Edgar had something so important to say, why did he not mention it when he was at the restaurant earlier, and not summon Peter away as though he was a naughty child?"

They had been finishing their dessert and coffee at the restaurant when the note had arrived, bidding Peter to return to his father's house at once for a matter most urgent. Meg had protested, insisting that she join him, but after some consideration Peter decided that it would be better if he went alone. Christine had seen the disappointment and even betrayal in Meg's clear blue eyes as his verdict was delivered. Evidently this was the first time Peter had gone against her wishes or acted with any kind of authority, and knowing Meg as she did, Christine knew that her friend would not take this shift in personality well – having believed for so long that Peter was different to every other man she had ever met. He had indulged Meg's every whim since their first meeting, and something told Christine that he would one day regret such extravagances.

Peter had acted like a perfect gentleman and sent the girls home in Edgar's carriage, choosing to take a hansom cab himself. Meg had smiled and let him kiss her, but Christine had sensed the torment that writhed through her friend.

Christine gave a small shrug in answer to Meg's question. "Perhaps it was something that can only be discussed in private; after all, every family has their secrets…"

"Well, Edgar has certainly become much more secretive of late. That is, ever since he began keeping _certain_ company."

Christine felt the stab of Meg's words, which found their intended nerve. She chose not to react; she would not allow Meg to direct her petulant anger at her and whatever she_ assumed _was happening between her and Erik. She could not begin to defend herself... or him. In fact, she was trying very hard not to think of him at all. She looked down at her hands, and then out of the window.

Clearly irritated that Christine had not answered her, Meg continued to voice her opinions aloud. "I am to be his _wife_! And he leaves me out in the cold as though I was no better than a wet rag! "

"He hardly did that," said Christine, her impatience increasing with her friend's out of character outburst. "Come, Meg, put things in perspective…"

Meg either did not hear her, or chose not to. "Well, it will serve him right if I'm too busy to see him tomorrow when he calls."

"That's childish," Christine said.

Meg stared at her, cold fire flashing in her blue eyes. Her lips gave a nasty twitch as poisonous words flared in her mouth in retaliation, but at the last minute she snapped her mouth closed – thinking better of it. She balled her fists in her lap and sat back with a huff.

Christine continued to stare out of the window, her cheeks burning softly. It would be easy to beseech Meg, to try and bring her out of this foul temper with kind words, but Christine did not have the heart for it.

"You're right," Meg said after a long pause "I _am_ being childish, I despise the way I feel – but I can't help it. I thought Peter was different to other men…I do not want there to be secrets between us."

"He _is_ different," said Christine, "and I'm sure he will tell you everything that passes tonight,"

"I don't want to be one of those trapped women, living with a boorish, secretive husband."

Christine could not suppress a laugh "Peter could not be further from either of those things! You are over-reacting!"

Meg finally heard herself, and laughed too. "Yes, perhaps I am absurd. Did you never worry about such things when you were engaged? I find it plays on my mind more the nearer the wedding gets. That there is a perhaps a side to him that I know nothing about…"

"No," Christine said, sadly. "Raoul was a kind, generous man, much like Peter – I did not need to worry about him becoming some kind of monster. And you should not worry either. But I suppose it is only natural to be apprehensive."

Meg smiled and then wrinkled her nose, as if she would ask a question, but again she bit her lip and stared out of the window. After a few moments she turned to Christine again, unable to remain silent.

"I've often thought recently that you did the right thing – in letting him go. I was shocked at first, appalled even, that you could willingly give him up. Most girls would do anything to be a Vicomtesse!" She laughed, but the shame she saw in Christine's downcast eyes made her continue more solemnly. "But then I realised that a man can be the kindest, most gentle person on earth, _but_ …if there is something missing…"

"Yes," Christine said, almost bitterly "'_but'_… you don't know how much I have come to loathe that word…"

Christine took Meg's hand, deciding to change the inevitable course this conversation would take. She did not want to indulge in her own lamentations; her friend seemed shocked at the smile that now graced her face. "I am sorry tonight did not end as you would have liked… but just think, soon you will be married and begging for an excuse to spend the evening away from Peter!"

Meg smiled "Yes, I must enjoy my freedom while I still have it. Especially before the children come."

Christine paled. "Children?"

"Oh yes, I hope to be with child as soon as possible. I've always wanted a family of my own."

"Of course." Christine struggled with what to say, her own dreams so far removed from children and domestic bliss. She had never been maternal, her head too far in the clouds to consider such things. As a child she had spent her evenings thinking of shadowy stories from other lands, of singing to Kings and Angels… not of one day caring for a family of her own. The thought of ever having a child felt strange to her. But she did not want to alienate her friend with her views, especially as Meg was now calm and at ease, so she smiled and said; "That sounds wonderful."

Meg's eyes lingered on her, and Christine could sense what she wanted to ask, and _who_ she wanted to ask about. But she was determined not to talk or think of him. She wanted a few hours of peace, not to continually carry out an introspection of her soul as though it was a cold body on a morgue table. She could not continue to scalpel her flesh to see if it was capable of loving another person so unconditionally. She turned to Meg and smiled brightly, suddenly feeling an intense desire to do as Meg had said: make the most of her freedom.

"Where shall we go? It seems a pity go home when we have the use of a carriage."

"Well, I suppose we do still have the theatre tickets, it would be a shame to waste them. But we do not have an escort."

Christine gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "And who is there here to shame us for such impropriety?"

Meg laughed "Very well… we can critique the dancers like _mamman_ does!"

"If only we had brought her cane, we could bang it on the floor when they put a step wrong!"

They both sat back, laughing. Meg called up to the driver and they set off for the theatre.

Meg turned to Christine with a grin. "Now I find I'm rather pleased that Peter was called away; this will be fun."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Thank goodness for that; I was beginning to fear I would have to restrain you from jumping out of the carriage."

Meg laughed and gave her a playful swat. Christine breathed, and realised that her mouth ached from where she had been laughing. It felt good.

She opened the window, and let the mellow air of evening brush against her skin. She closed her eyes, feeling that perhaps everything was going to be all right.

oOo

Erik walked silently into the building that had for the last few months served as his home. The damp air festered against his face, the moisture creeping curiously beneath his mask. He had never noticed before, just how damp and disgusting these walls were. How the carcass of many an insect now lay withered, eroded away into dust. This was an echoing throat where only spiders dared dwell, while dangling from the rafters they could look down upon the silent corridors and bask in their lethargic supremacy. Erik smiled, for the whole scene was actually rather amusing. This was his half-way house between his hovel at the Opera and the true life above ground. The corpse of a house was the mid-point in his metamorphosis from monster to man.

Had he changed? He did not yet know. It seemed easy to enlighten his senses, to promise not to harm another human being, to construct a pretty vow and abide by it for the rest of his days. It was easy to change your manners and alter your conduct, almost too easy… His instincts still whispered at him to run and recoil into the gloom, to be alone and ponder in the darkness. You could perhaps train a wolf to sit, but you could not silence his howl.

'_... I thought you had given up hiding in the shadows?' _Christine had said to him earlier this evening, with amusement in her voice - without fear. Years, perhaps even months ago he would have been incensed at the idea of someone laughing at him, by the fact that Christine was bold enough to tease him! But... but now he found this gentle sense of equality intoxicating. She was human too, with faults, virtues and fears. The knowledge that she had regrets, that she mourned the past as keenly as he did, made his heart convulse. He wanted to pull at the strings of this new reality until there was nothing left, until he knew her every hope and fear. She was not an angel and she never had been – the thought made him want her even more.

He had come to this house after returning to Edgar's home; the information from Christine about the old man's abrupt departure from the restaurant had chilled Erik, something about it had not seemed right. And he had needed to be sure that the old man was not going to do anything foolish!

He had been too late. When he entered the house Peter had been sitting with his head in his hands, Edgar had been standing over him, pale and grave. When Erik had entered the old man had turned his dry eyes upon him and smiled a smile of such sadness that Erik knew he would remember it for all of time. The old man had said: "It is done, Larsson. Peter knows everything. Secrets will haunt me no more."

The boy had looked up then, and in his eyes Erik saw that a tempest was raging. Rage against his mother for her wanton dishonesty. Rage against Edgar and Henry; the former for his deception and the latter for his utter abandonment. And a silent rage against his wrenched existence. But there had also been something else, something that Erik recognised all too well. It had consumed every pore of Peter's usually tranquil persona – a deep and terrible rage at the world and every God that had ever deigned to exist! Real life had shown His hand to Peter, and the boy looked ready to wage a war.

Erik looked down and noticed a slight alteration in the dust that cluttered the stairs leading up to the first floor, the faintest impression of a careless foot. Someone was here.

He looked down at himself, irony stifled him with death-laced hands. He was walking into a wanted murderer's dwelling, armed with nothing but a desire to save the woman he loved. What a curious twist of fate, he thought scornfully, that he should thus find himself in the position _Monsieur le Vicomte_ had been in two years prior. He had no weapons, no lasso coiled in the depths of his person, and he had promised himself he would not kill Henry. He had to concede that things certainly did not seem to be in his favour – just how did one settle a dispute such as this without death and violence?

He took the stairs two at a time, soundlessly, and stopped when he got to the top floor. The door to his former lodgings stood black and silent, an orange glow illuminating the edges. A dark portal encased in fire. He was pleased that he had had the foresight to move his few possessions to a hotel in the city, for clearly he would now be sharing his lodgings with whatever lurked inside.

Erik felt no fear as he opened the door brashly and stepped into the room. He felt no pity as Henry's eyes snapped to his and a flicker of terror spread over the old man's face. He felt nothing as he looked at the man that had caused so much fear to Christine, the man who wanted to destroy Edgar's life. His anger was so mute and poised that he felt eerily calm, as calm as the ghost who had heard Christine declare her love for the boy on the rooftop of the Opera and had done nothing. He nodded in greeting to the old man, and revelled in the irony of his own casual smile.

Henry had promptly recovered himself, and was sitting back in his chair with relative ease. He was stroking his small, greasy moustache with his thumb and index finger. But his first expression had been all that Erik needed to firm his resolve – Henry Cranmer was afraid.

"Erik," the old man said with a nod, "I must confess I am surprised to see you, is it not the custom to send a note before calling on another in Paris? Or am I simply out of touch with the latest trends?"

Erik closed the door behind him. He did not look at Henry when he spoke, but glanced about the room. "One might accord such considerations to a gentleman, perhaps. But let's not either of us deceive ourselves."

Henry smiled. "I have missed that dry wit of yours. Not many men can carry off such sarcasm; you, however, appear to be the exception."

"I did not come here to have my ego indulged," Erik said, "_charming_ as your compliments are."

Henry looked Erik up and down, as if he, too, was trying to assimilate the changes in his former friend. "And what did bring you here, dare I ask…"

Erik did not answer, but continued to make a silent inventory of the room.

"You know why I am here, let us not play these games." he said firmly.

Henry considered him for a moment. "Ah, the girl…"

Erik gave him a sour smirk. "Yes, _the girl_."

"Well, I confess that I did wonder why your correspondence had trailed off…" said Henry.

"I'm surprised you noticed that I stopped writing. You seem to have found many others to correspond with of late."

"So you think _I_ sent those notes to your little Mademoiselle?" Henry chuckled "Well, yes, _technically_ I suppose I did… please, Erik, do not stand on ceremony around me, sit down and let us talk properly."

"I will remain where I am, thank you."

"Very well, please yourself. All that business, it was only a game, you know. No harm would have actually befallen her! It was mere sport – just something to stir her up a little. Perhaps the fake newspaper article was taking it a little far, but an abandoned soul like me needs to have some enjoyment, even if it is scaring pretty young girls… surely you can appreciate that!"

Erik could feel his breathing become heavy, his lungs filling with stone. The blood of his neck burned beneath his skin. He walked to stand behind the chair that faced Henry - needing to put a barricade between them.

"Contacting her was not my idea, you know." Henry continued, amused to the core by Erik's obvious discomfort. "It seems you only have yourself to blame for that."

Erik levelled an irritated stare at him. "What do you mean?"

"It was a mutual friend of ours from India. It seems the two of you started some strange power play while you were there, and he wanted the final victory. Once he found out you were in Paris, he decided to continue your little mêlée and discover what your _one_ weakness was…it seems the idea has been plaguing him for many months. Do you happen to recall such a conversation?"

Erik chose to ignore the question. He began to pace back and forward slowly, forcing Henry's eyes to follow him as one follows the weary swing of a pendulum. He spoke calmly. "Men like Rajan are always brave from afar… tell me one thing, though; just how did he come to know that I was in Paris?"

He stopped abruptly and met Henry's eyes.

"Well, I confess I aided him with the information of your whereabouts, your reaction to Raoul de Chagny's marriage, and the elusive name '_Christine' _that affected you so when you were in my house," Erik's eyes thinned, Henry made a face of mock innocence and held his hands up "_… _I am sorry for my betrayal, old boy, but you know yourself that Rajan is not a man to be meddled with. However, now he has his answer he will leave you in peace. He will not harm the girl – he only wanted to cause you the same discomfort he felt whist you were a guest in his house. And scared all of his young mistresses half to death, might I add. It seems he was terrified of you! Can you believe it; I have known the man for twenty years and never knew him to be afraid of anyone. What exactly did you do while you were there?"

Erik smiled coldly. "I swore never to tell – but I can show you if you like."

Henry's hand unconsciously went to his throat; he coughed slightly, and then continued. "It seems Rajan's interest was rekindled about a month after your departure from India; a man came to his house inquiring after a masked stranger rumoured to be in the area. Of course, Rajan denied any knowledge of you, but it seems this visitor ripened his curiosity…"

"And who was this visitor?"

"Oh, I don't know, some fool who had recently been released from prison, called himself the '_Daroga of Mazanderan'_ or some such nonsense … does that name mean anything to you? Rajan thought he was absolutely mad and sent him away."

Erik smiled faintly, his fingers curled into a graceful fist behind the chair that shielded him from Henry.

"I have never heard that name before. He was indeed mistaken…"

Henry laced his fingers together, his eyes never leaving Erik's face. "Are you aware there has been a man following you all over Paris for the last month… and that _that_ was how Rajan found out the exact identity of the infamous 'Christine'? This man then charged me to send the notes… which in turn brought me to Paris, not that I required much persuasion, I might add. We both know of my personal reasons for coming here, so the whole thing has worked out rather nicely… I'm afraid this is one crime you cannot place solely at my feet."

"No?" Erik asked with a raised brow.

"No. And it seems you are losing your touch, to not notice that someone is stalking you and your mistress!"

"Christine Daaé is not my mistress."

"No, perhaps not, but you do love her… She is a sweet looking girl, very fine eyes. You have impeccable taste, Erik. She does seem a silly sort though, to give up a fine man like the Vicomte de Chagny! A very foolish thing to do, and for a murdering rogue like you, no less! Ha, tell me, does she know just who she has allowed into her affections?"

"I do not have her affections; you can be quite certain of that," Erik said. His voice was calm.

"Well, I'm sure you will win her round, she will need to marry sooner or later and I once heard Rajan say you had quite a vast fortune stored away from all of your dealings in the underworld. You are a good match for her - especially as she has no money or family of her own. Is that how you like your women, Erik? Desperate and poor?"

Erik merely smiled "Please do not speak of Mademoiselle Daaé in such a way."

"I am only stating the facts," said Henry. "I bet she came running straight to you for safety when she got that note! You should be thanking me. What a pretty little bed warmer she'll make."

Erik moved to sit in the chair opposite. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "One more word about Christine Daaé, and I will dig up the grave of your _beloved_ Isabella and feed her remains to the grand sewers of Paris. And if you do not believe me capable, Rajan clearly did not tell you enough."

Erik looked at Henry's neck; it was large, but old…and probably brittle. He studied it, calculating how easy it would be – how quickly it would snap. He had no lasso, but his hands trembled with a vicious hate he could never have prepared himself for. It had been too long since he had used his hands, too long since he had crushed bones with his own flesh…he had vowed never to kill again, but this man had threatened him with the only thing he could not overlook. He damned himself, and his infernal promise to be good. It took all of his strength to rationalise the situation, to gulp his hatred down like a sour nettle and bring his thoughts under control, to stop the trembling that began at his knuckles and spread like a steady flame to his fingertips. He managed it – _just_.

Henry stood up; his neck had turned red, as if aware of Erik's scrutiny. His grey eyes seemed to be burning. "Are you threatening me, Erik?"

"Yes." Erik stated firmly. Unmoving.

"I advise you against such an error, you have no idea who you are dealing with."

"You are mistaken, monsieur…I know very well. But the same cannot be said for _you_."

Henry's smile died for a moment. "Yes, that may be so. It seems there are very few who know the truth about you. But come now, let there be no more war mongering between us. Despite the game I played with the notes, it was actually not my intention to cause harm to the girl. And I see that perhaps the agonies you have suffered over her safety are sufficient revenge for your betrayal of me."

Erik could not suppress a laugh "Betrayal?"

Henry scowled "…so you deny such a thing?"

"Of course."

Henry drew his neck back; his slightly bulbous eyes retracted into their sockets. They seemed to gleam with disbelief and abhorrence. "I believed you when you gave your word to me that you would ruin that man…" he said softly. He sank back down into his chair. "I believed you to be sincere. But I see now that I was wrong. You are not loyal to anyone, are you, Erik! Confess it!"

"I confess it freely – loyalty has never been one of my finer points."

"Well, luckily, my plans here no longer include you or that girl of yours. So you may leave; you'd best hide her away in case I change my mind." Henry walked over to a jacket and pulled a small pistol from the pocket. He cradled it in his open palm, showing it to Erik as though it was a precious jewel.

"There are two bullets in this gun. One is for me and the other is for Lockhart. I told you what must be done if I ever came back to Paris… I warned you of what would happen. I have come here to finish it, once and for all."

"No," said Erik, in a low, eerie voice.

"No?"

"I cannot allow you to harm him,"

"_You_ cannot allow _me_!" Henry laughed.

"That is what I said,"

Henry continued to laugh and placed the gun in his pocket. "Well, it has all been set into motion – there is nothing you can do to prevent it. We have arranged a rendezvous, somewhere only we know…"

"Ah, but you see, Edgar did not ever receive this." Said Erik, pulling out the letter he had taken from Edgar's home and letting it dangle loosely between his fingers.

Henry's face changed and became pale, and then red again. "So, you are a thief as well as a liar."

"It seems I am."

"It was lucky I had another of my boy's hand-deliver the same message to him a few hours ago, the boy returned here, and assured me the old fool had received it. Stop this wretched interference now, Erik, while it still amuses me to keep you alive!"

Erik smiled calmly and turned away to hide his vexation. All the time he had been here, as he stood and watched Henry prance around in his blood thirsty delirium, he felt utterly appalled. It was as though a black mirror had been placed before him and he could see, with first-hand horror, the way he had once so arrogantly threatened Christine with the life of her lover, the way he had once littered the Opera with threatening notes in the same way Henry had strewn them across the streets of Paris.

It was hard to breathe. This whole situation was an utter farce, the scene in an opera before the tragic finale… Erik scowled; no blood would be spilled this night. The orchestra would not play the haunting notes of a scene wrought with death…

He turned to see that Henry was dressed in his overcoat and hat. The small pistol safely nestled in his pocket.

"…Now, Erik. I am warning you for a final time: stay out of this. I have had fun playing this little game of ours, but now the hour is almost upon me. If you attempt to follow me, or warn the old man, I will see to it that Christine knows everything,"

The old man was becoming frantic, small beads of sweat sank sourly down his face; the bones shook in his hands. He continued, trying to put on his gloves.

"Whilst I do not know the entirety of your dealings in India – I know enough to drive her away from you. I know stories that will make her dream in blood until the end of her days. To claw away at every piece of her flesh you have ever touched. And if you attempt to stand in my way, if you try to save the old man – I will tell her all of it, Erik. You see that I won't!"

"Enough of this," Erik said quietly. "You know I am not going to allow you to go anywhere near her!" His mouth twisted into an ugly smirk. "You are not the only one who has been busy writing notes… I have sent out two this very night. One was to Christine, a signed confession of my involvement in all of this. By tomorrow morning she will know everything about me. And the other… the other was to Peter, telling him _everything_."

Henry slowly turned from white to a sallow yellow; he took a few steps backwards and grabbed at his chest – as though he intended to rip out his own heart. Had he been any other man perhaps he might have cried, or been able to show an emotion other than spite. His mouth gave a rodent-like twitch and he put his hand in his pocket, as though to reach for the gun.

"You lie!" He rasped.

"I wish I did," said Erik, "you left me with no other option. You knew I would do something."

"The game of chess..." Henry said distantly, "I should have remembered."

"Yes, you should." Said Erik, for the first time he noticed just how old Henry looked, far beyond his actual years. A throb of remorse flamed suddenly in his chest for what this man had lost and suffered, but a moment later he was repulsed at himself for such weak thoughts. He clenched his jaw and turned away, appalled by his own conscience.

"And I believe this is what we call a 'check mate'…" Henry said, almost amused.

Erik remained where he was, standing with his back to Henry. The old man noticed him touch his mask, and then look at his own hands, as if in anger.

"It is not too late," said Erik, the calmness of his voice forced Henry to sit back down in his chair, the gun lay forgotten in his hand. "You could run, leave Paris... Nobody need die tonight. Surely we have both had our fill of death."

Henry sat back, considering. The distance and clarity of Erik's voice was a lance of soothing ice. And he was right, nobody needed to die. He could take his millions, live out his final years in exile, forgotten on a distant, sunny shore. Remember Isabella, finally become a man she could be proud of...

The door to the apartment opened, as if on cue. And someone stepped inside.

Henry stood whirled around to face the intruder, holding up the gun, within a few moments his face became taught; expressionless… he lowered the gun to his side. Erik turned too, and could only stare at the figure in anger.

"Hello… _father_."

Peter stood in the doorway, his eyes glittering with betrayal.

"How could you?" whispered Henry, turning to face Erik.

It was Erik's turn to hold up his hands in self-defence. "Believe me, I knew nothing of this."

"I followed him here," said Peter, "my father, I mean... _Edgar_ has told me everything. Monsieur Larsson arrived at our home just as I was leaving to come and find you – I could not believe it, not until I saw you for myself…"

"You little fool," said Erik, glaring at Peter for his hasty intrusion. "How could you be sure it was safe to come here? I will not have your blood on my conscience!"

"Safe?" echoed Henry. "You think I would harm my own son?"

"I am not your son!" said Peter, charging forward and grabbing Henry by the collar, pushing him until the old man's back collided with the wall. "There is _nothing_ of me in you!" he spat.

Henry did not appear to be perturbed at being pinned to the wall, there seemed to be nothing but warmth in his eyes. "No, you are every inch your mother, but look at your eyes, my boy – and then look at mine. Tell me what you find there… "

Peter shook him. "Shut up!"

"And I do not recall Edgar Lockhart ever having such fighting spirit!" Henry laughed.

Erik could only watch; he did not feel it necessary to intervene. Thus far, the young pup seemed to be handling himself rather well.

Peter tightened his hold around the old man's neck, shaking him. "Tell me it is not true, tell me he is mistaken! How could my mother ever love such a _monster_ as you?"

At these words Henry pushed the boy off. The ease with which he did so suggested that he had been allowing Peter seize him. Peter stumbled backwards, falling and hitting his head on the wall near the door. Henry towered over him.

"She did love me!" he snapped "And you, _boy_, are the product of that love - whether you wish it or not! She was mine before she even looked at Edgar Lockhart!"

Peter held his head in pain, staring up at the old man with horror.

At this Erik came to stand between them. The old man took a few steps back and held up his hands. "I will not harm him. Whether he will admit to it or not, he _is_ my blood… You were a fool to tell the old man what you knew of my plans, Erik! If you think matters between us are resolved you are gravely mistaken!"

"Enough!" Erik snapped, the word coming louder than he had intended, his breathing came in harsh gasps. "I have heard enough of your poison for one evening. This situation is now at an end, even you must see that." He walked over to Peter and studied they boy's injuries. "Do not touch this boy again!"

Peter was lying in a pathetic heap on the floor, putting all of his weight on his good arm as a support. He made a miserable attempt to get up but moaned in pain and slid to the floor once more. Erik stifled a curse and grabbed the good arm, hauling Peter to his feet. The boy made a sound of both alarm and surprise. He wrenched himself free of Erik's grasp and leaned against the wall for support.

"I can look after myself!" he snapped.

Erik looked at the graze on Peter's head, and then at his twisted arm. "Of course you can," he said.

"My father may have forgiven you, Erik. But do not think that just because I followed you here I share his sentiments!"

Erik stared at the boy, but could not find the strength to retaliate. Peter continued:

"While the two of you were _catching up _in here, I dispatched one of those street urchins to fetch the _gendarmes_ – I suspect they will be here in the next few minutes. I'm sure they will quicken their step when they learn that Henry Cranmer waits for them, no better than a sitting duck!" Peter's lips cured into an ugly smile and he laughed slightly, his anger and sadness manifesting into something akin to madness. "Welcome home, father!"

Henry stared at Peter for a long moment, and then muttered something. He collected up the forgotten pistol and stared down at it, he looked first at Erik, then at Peter. Then he aimed the pistol at his son.

"Stay back, Erik, or I will shoot." He threw a panicked look over his shoulder at the masked man, who stood behind him, motionless.

Henry walked towards his son with the monotonous gait of a man approaching the gallows. His expression was blank, as though hidden inside a sack. "How I have dreamed of knowing you over the last twenty five years, how I wondered what you were like... if there was anything of me inside, or whether Lockhart had turned you into a jaded clone of a dandy..." he smiled, raising his wrinkled hand to touch the boy's pale face, the other one still holding the gun. Peter followed the hand with his eyes, twin orbs of shock and panic. He flinched slightly when the old man touched him, but did not pull away. Henry looked at him with such pride and sorrow that Peter did not seem to breathe. "And now, after all of those years of wondering I can finally see..." he laughed "_calling out the gendarmes against your own father_! Ha, Bravo, my boy - you really _are_ a Cranmer."

He wiped something from his cheek and stepped away from Peter. And then he was gone.

Peter stared after him, and for a moment seemed full of regret. He made an attempt run after him but the pain of putting his weight on his sore leg made him fall to his knees. He looked up at Erik.

"Go after him!"

Erik laughed. "Ah, so _now _you require my aid?"

Erik walked to the window and looked down; shadowy figures ran towards the building: arms and legs moving in mechanical unison. His mouth twisted and he smiled. He turned to Peter "It appears your friends have arrived."

He looked outside again, all was silent. They had obviously reached the building. Erik wondered whether they had caught Henry. "Tell them nothing of my presence here. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes...," Peter said, he sat still, as if in shock. He scuttled backwards until his back hit the wall and clung to it like a startled moth.

"Tell them you followed the urchin here who delivered this note to your father," Erik dropped the stolen note from Edgar's house to the floor. "Tell them what you damn well please, but _do not_ mention me!" He knelt down and grabbed Peter's sore arm, pulling the boy close. "Do you hear me?"

Peter did not answer; his pupils were so wide that Erik saw his sneer reflected in the distant flames of black. Incensed, he continued: "Tell them to go to the graveside of your mother, I have a feeling Henry's heart will lead him there. And send some officers to guard Edgar…they may reach him before I do."

As if suddenly becoming aware of the pain in his arm, Peter moaned and tried to squirm free. His blue eyes were bloodshot and wild. Erik shoved the boy away and with a few brisk strides was at the window. He pushed the decaying thing open with his hand and then his elbow. It screeched out into the night. The room flooded with cold night air.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked, as the shock wore off his anger returned. "You can't _really _mean to leave me here alone!"

"Indeed, I can," Erik said, "as you said, you can handle this by yourself."

Boots beat against the stairs in regimented unison, and then stopped. _"Secure the building!" _a deep voice called, the words reverberated up through the decaying masonry. Erik scowled and began to climb out of the window.

"Fine then, run away... I will not tell them of your involvement in this. But know that I do it only for Christine, and not for you!"

"I can think of no finer reason." said Erik.

"Where do you intend to go after you have visited my father?"

Erik's face became grave, every feature curling in shame. "To where _my_ heart always leads me."

oOo


End file.
